


Glass From Heaven Will Save Them

by nchi_wana



Category: Et Cetera (Manga)
Genre: Action, Drama, Gen, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Reluctant Hero, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nchi_wana/pseuds/nchi_wana
Summary: A clue to the Eto Gun brings Baskerville to the remote village of Edén. The people there mistake him as their new priest, and he finds that the resident nun is hiding a powerful weapon in the church. But he isn’t the only one after it. The village is being harassed by the U.S. Cavalry, and Baskerville thinks he knows who’s behind it. He soon faces a difficult choice that puts his mission at risk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction is loosely based on the film _Guns for San Sebastian_ , which is even more loosely based on the novel _A Wall For San Sebastian_.
> 
> All critique, comments, and kudos are appreciated.

 

 

* * *

 

The stagecoach with its team of four horses left a broadening trail of dust in its wake. Sagebrush carpeted the large basin that had once been the bed of some vast, ancient lake. Gone to the ages, it was now a valley devoid of most life, the cracked soil parched and begging for rain. Only the sagebrush thrived. Above it the sky was pale and severe, making no promises of moisture.

On the plane of this this limitless terrain, the stagecoach tore up the road in a desperate drive for civilization. The beasts that hauled the coach snorted and strained. Sweat frothed and streaked their black coats and gleamed on their hides. The driver, a thin, grizzled man with a hat and duster, drew the whip again and called out to encourage them. His eyes were squinted from decades under the sun. He scowled at the dust that flew up to coat his body. He dared to bare his teeth at the horses, gave another yell, and swallowed the dust.

The monotonous landscape stretched onward. The faraway mountains lining the primordial shoreline of the lake offered the only feature of interest. The driver fixed his narrow gaze on a spot on that quivering horizon. As the spot grew larger, he slowed his team. The tired animals wheezed and labored.

The driver watched the point in the distance. He eased up on the horses. Closer now. It took some skill in knowing when close was _too_ close. The nearer he drew to that point, the bigger the risk.

The point grew larger, and the driver halted his team. Trembling with exhaustion, the horses were more than happy to obey. The driver took his fist, leaned back, and slammed it twice on the wall of the stagecoach.

“End of the trail!” he spat.

There was no response. Again the driver slammed his fist against the wall. “I said this is the end of the trail! I ain’t getting’ closer. From here I take the road ‘round.”

The door to the coach opened. A passenger disembarked, swinging his long legs out. As his boots touched the ground, the fine silt of eons past puffed up and settled on his toes.

“You can’t get any closer?” the passenger asked.

The multitude of lines on the driver’s face rearranged themselves as he regarded the passenger with a sort of fearful curiosity. The passenger wore a blue priest’s cassock and broad hat, but he had long blond hair past his shoulders, sharp blue eyes, and a long face with a pointed chin. He carried a thick Bible bound in worn leather. He’d brought nothing else with him. The air about the man was…different, not what one would expect of a priest. Something dark lurked under his placid image, gliding just below the surface, but the driver couldn’t pinpoint what it might be. But he was afraid to know.

“Not without my shotgun partner,” the driver replied. His voice was cracked and dry like the land around him. “Luckily it’s not bandits I need to worry ‘bout,” he added with a grumble. He glared at the spot in the distance.

The passenger, or rather priest, followed his line of sight. He frowned. “I suppose if it’s that dangerous, then I can’t force you to go.”

“Even if you held a gun to my head, I wouldn’t go.”

The priest smiled serenely. “Now what would a man like me need with a gun?”

The driver scoffed. “I surely wonder.”

The priest stepped away from the vehicle, and the driver commanded the horses forward without a goodbye. The road forked ahead, and as the stagecoach accelerated, the dust cloud revived, and the driver steered away down the left fork and away from danger.

The priest stood alone in the emptiness as he watched the stagecoach depart. He then turned his attention to the speck in the distance. He would have to walk. That wretched driver wouldn’t give him a decent explanation, or directions, and left before he could ask. At this point, however, he should still be thankful he’d made it this far. He’d had to pay the coachman a handsome sum, and would have to take what he could get.

The ground crunched under his boots as he walked, the only sound in the absence of birds. A lizard darted across his path and scurried to find shade under a bush. As much as the priest wanted to join it, he had to make do with his wide hat. His cassock only served to suffocate him in the heat. But he needed that cassock. To discard it would probably ruin his goal. And that goal was everything to him.

He blinked in the bright sunlight. In the horizon that wavered in the heat, the spot had become a line, and the line became shapes. The whole scene shimmered in front of him like a mirage. A wall constructed of adobe bricks came into view, but it had seen some better days. The wall measured around three hundred feet long, but a small section of about twenty feet had been blown out and scattered on the ground. The first signs of life were people hurrying about the damage. A tall gate made of wood stood to the right of the broken portion of wall. It was left open as people scrambled to repair the wall.

Coming up on the priest’s right was a small cemetery, overgrown with crispy weeds. Its sorry state and dilapidated wooden fence indicated it hadn’t been cared for in a while. Among the white tombstones stood a monument larger than all the others. The priest stopped to look at it. The monument, fashioned into an obelisk, was newer than the others, made from granite while the other markers were marble or wood. The inscription on its face was too far away to read. Placed around the marker were colorful flowers just now beginning to wilt. The person buried there had been well liked apparently.

A boy sat in the shadow of the obelisk. He leaned with his back against the granite, faced away from the priest, but his shoulders slumped in a morose sort of way. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his black hair dusted with grime. The boy looked as if he had just walked out of a battlefield.

Feeling a little uneasy now, the priest kept going. The boy in the cemetery and the broken wall… Although he didn’t know why the stagecoach driver had refused to go near this place, the driver had stated there was some kind of conflict going on in this area, but he wouldn’t elaborate.

The priest drew closer to the wall. At first he went unnoticed, but then people looked up from their work. He thought they would be suspicious of him, but their faces lit up with relief and excitement. Many dropped their tools and bricks and rushed toward him, their voices rattling around him in exultation. Others stared in amazement. Most of them spoke Spanish, but a few used English. The attention startled him, and the priest tried to back away, but the crowd grabbed his arms and led him through the gate and into the town plaza.

The town was small and assembled mostly of adobe brick. The buildings were simple and squat, accommodating maybe a hundred people. At the end of the plaza was a modest church, the bell in the belfry gleaming in the sunlight. A crooked cross leaned precariously on the belfry, but someone was already at work trying to straighten it.

The people hustled him up the steps of the church, careful of the sizable chips in the stairs, and thrust open the two narrow doors that made the entrance. Inside, the sanctuary was small and simple, with a brown-tiled floor and aged wooden pews. A statue of the crucified Jesus hung on the wall behind the plain, rectangular altar. A few windows had been placed along each side of the walls to emit light. It was obvious these weren’t wealthy people, but what stood out most was the iron chandelier in the ceiling. It held more than a dozen large candles supported by a complex network of designs. It contrasted with the austerity that characterized the rest of the building.

The people led him down the aisle and to a door behind and to the right of the altar. A man broke away from the crowd and rapped on the door. Everyone chattered happily over the priest.

Joyful as they were, the people looked exhausted. The women smoothed out their appearances in this special moment, and the men wiped away the sweat from their brows. Judging by their looks, they seemed of Mexican origin, but there were a few whites among them. Twenty or more people pressed against him. Their mass filled the aisle between the pews.

The door opened, and the people ceased their babbling. The priest held his breath as he clutched his Bible. His jaw dropped. A nun stepped out, dressed in a black habit with a white coif and black veil. She was young, with full lips and large, dark eyes framed with long lashes. She took a moment to examine him, and frowned.

“Are you the priest they sent to replace Father Michael?” she asked in surprise.

The words stuck in the priest’s throat. What should he say? All of this was unexpected. _But this is the place. I_ _’m sure of it_. “I-I am,” he stammered. “I’m…Father Baskerville. Is this town…?”

“Yes, this is Edén,” the nun replied. “We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Since Father Michael passed away, we’ve been beside ourselves with loss.”

Sadness marred the faces of the people as they remembered.

The nun looked out over the crowd to see she was right. “The people here loved him.”

 _Ed_ _én_ , Baskerville thought. _This is definitely the place._ His latest lead to find the Eto Gun.

“That’s unfortunate,” the fake priest replied, feigning sympathy. “It is a terrible thing what happened to Father Michael. He is with God now.”

The nun closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. Many others in the crowd did likewise. Baskerville made sure to emulate.

When the nun opened her eyes, a bright spark entered them. “I am Sister Augustina. I’ve lived in Edén for six months now. The people here have been on edge, and our morale was hit hard after Father Michael was assassinated.”

“A-Assassinated?” Baskerville blurted. The people looked puzzled at his reaction, and he added, “W-Well, I had heard he’d died, but they didn’t tell me _how._ ”

“Perhaps they didn’t wish to deter you from coming here,” said Sister Augustina.

Baskerville realized the tall marker in the cemetery might be Father Michael’s. “They didn’t tell me much,” he admitted. “What in the world happened here?”

Sister Augustina put a hand on his shoulder and steered him down the aisle. The people parted respectfully and followed, buzzing with conversation. They stepped out into the daylight. Sister Augustina made a sweeping gesture at the wall that surrounded the village.

“The cavalry has been hard at work to overtake us. They gave us a warning a month ago, but we decided instead to fortify our town and fight back,” she explained. “As you can see, we still need a lot of work done. The people need inspiration. Father Michael and I were a team, but now…” She bowed her head.

Baskerville’s blood turned to ice. “The cavalry? Why would the cavalry try to destroy a town like this? I thought the cavalry was supposed to protect citizens?”

“They didn’t tell you that, either?”

“They didn’t tell me much of anything.”

“Then they really were afraid of deterring you. I suppose they expected me to explain everything.” The nun sighed and glanced back at the wall. “They want something we have, but we refuse to give it to them.”

A bad promotion seized Baskerville. “What’s in this town that the cavalry would want?”

Her expression fell, and she went pale. “I brought it here. Somehow the cavalry found out, and now they want it.” She took a breath. “It’s a weapon.”

A cold darkness passed through his soul. “The cavalry has its own weapons. Why this particular weapon? What is it?”

Someone in the crowd called out something urgent in Spanish. Sister Augustina snapped her gaze on them. “We don’t speak of it,” she said. Her eyes took on an eerie, fathomless quality.

Baskerville was disappointed she wouldn’t mention it. _It has to be the Eto Gun. If the cavalry is after it_ _… There’s only one person who would do that._ And apparently they’d caught wind of this lead long before he did. _Curse it all. Now I_ _’ll have to confront him._ As luck would have it, Baskerville was inside Edén and the other man wasn’t. _I have a better chance. My disguise works to put people at ease, while he only instills fear and resistance._ It should be easy to find out if this weapon was the Eto Gun or not, and Baskerville was certain it was. Otherwise the cavalry wouldn’t be trying to hard to get in.

“Can’t we reason with them?” Baskerville asked. “Do we have to fight them?”

Sister Augustina smiled bitterly. “Father Michael said the same thing. He went out one morning to do just that, to reason with them. He returned in a coffin, left at the gates the next morning. They’d left an American flag on it.” Her lips trembled at the memory. “A mockery.”

Baskerville touched the brim of his hat and watched the labor at the wall. “An ultimatum. How long ago was this?”

“A week ago.” The nun squeezed her eyes shut, and regret strained her voice. “They shouldn’t have sent you here.”

“Oh, no,” Baskerville said with a shake of his head, “I think I need to be here. These people need the encouragement. What the cavalry is doing is wrong. They have to be stopped.” And he needed to stop _that person_ from getting his hands on the gun. “Where is this weapon kept exactly?”

Sister Augustina seemed hesitant to say it. “It’s…in the basement of the church. It was the safest place we could think of.”

The people had started filing out of the church and heading back to the wall. For such a small town with limited technology, they made quick progress. Baskerville could assess a cannon likely caused the damage. These people didn’t have a chance. “How have the people been fighting?” he said. “Guns?”

“We have some guns, but not enough to go around,” the nun said.

Baskerville crossed his arms. “So you’ve had to kill people?”

A woman lingering nearby said, “How else are we supposed to protect ourselves? These people want to kill us!”

“Then let’s take the weapon to a place where they can’t find it,” Baskerville suggested. “If we get it out of town, then the cavalry won’t be blasting down your walls anymore.”

The people looked scandalized, and Sister Augustina went flush.

“Father Baskerville, with all due respect, that is completely out of the question,” she said, her expression tight. “It needs to stay in the church!”

“A weapon in a church?” the false priest said incredulously. “Come now, Sister Augustina. The only weapon needed in a church is prayer.” He put on his best, priestly smile.

The nun blinked at this.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ll tell you what. Give me the weapon and I’ll sneak out of town—“

“Then how will the cavalry know the weapon is gone?” Sister Augustina put her hands on her hips. “They would never believe us if we told them. They’’ll stop at nothing.”

Baskerville couldn’t deny her reasoning. He couldn’t tell her everyone should abandon the town, either. The cavalry would catch them before they could get far.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, “but what I’m most curious about is why there is a weapon here in the first place, and why you seek so much to defend it. Why not just give it to the cavalry so they’ll leave you alone?”

The nun gazed at him for a time before answering. Her eyes had once again become black pools of obsidian. “Let’s talk about this inside.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sister Augustina led Baskerville into the padre’s quarters. The room was plain and meagerly furnished, with a cot, a storage trunk, and a desk and chair. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall above the desk. A chamber pot sat under the bed, and a thin, faded red rug was all that separated their feet from the brick floor. A window let in a square of light against the opposite wall. It was dressed with a simple blanket to act as a curtain.

“This is your new home,” Augustina said. “My quarters are next door.”

After glancing around the room, Baskerville said, “Why did you come here of all places? Seems to me you should be in a convent or managing an orphanage somewhere.”

The nun chuckled. “I was born here.”

“But you told me you’ve only been here six months.”

“When I decided to join the sisterhood, I left for a time, but I returned. I felt my calling here.”

“And what calling was that?”

Augustina paused as if considering her next words. She stared at the floor. “My purpose is to help the helpless, to be a protector.”

“You said you brought the weapon here and then the cavalry showed up. What did you want to protect the town from?”

The nun went silent. She began rubbing her arms with her hands. “The flood.”

“Flood?” There wasn’t a drop of water to be found for miles around. There wasn’t a river, and certainly no lakes. The best that could be found was an underwater spring, but Baskerville hadn’t seen any springs on the way to Edén. He’d seen a well in the plaza, though. How did the people live here, anyway? They couldn’t farm without any water, and they didn’t look like miners. The railroad wasn’t anywhere near here, either.

He went to stand close to the nun. “Was there a flood?”

“No…”

“Will there _be_ a flood?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you know this?”

She turned, her gaze pinning him. “I saw it in a dream.”

Baskerville repressed a deep sigh. _Oh, great. A fanatic._ She looked normal enough when he first met her.

“Well, Sister Augustina,” he began, “I’m sure the best course of action would be to evacuate the town before it happens. You can’t use weapons to fight nature; the cavalry, yes, but not nature.”

The nun hugged herself. “But we can’t leave. The cavalry has us cornered.”

“I didn’t see them when I came in. In fact, I didn’t see them anywhere. I think it’s safe to move the people, and the weapon.”

Augustina shook her head. “That’s what they want us to think. They’ve done it once before. They’re hiding.”

She could be right. The town abutted the mountains, and the mountains provided a good hiding place. “Do you know the size of the cavalry?”

“We don’t count them.” Her eyes became hard. “We just fight them.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re winning.” Baskerville estimated the town probably had a few more days before the cavalry overran it and took what it wanted. Even if the cavalry was outnumbered, firepower alone would decide the outcome in its favor. Baskerville needed to act before it was too late.

Old blankets had been draped over the the cot. He pulled them back to find they were clean. “If things have gotten this desperate, then maybe now is the time to call upon the power of this weapon?””

Augustina looked about to say something and then changed her mind. “No, I can’t. I was not told to use the weapon against the cavalry.”

Another disappointment. Baskerville preferred to have the weapon come to him, instead of the other way around. It was more work to sift through smoldering rubble or pilfer the dead, and blood stains were so annoying to get out his clothes. If he let the cavalry have its way, it could do the job for him, but that was out of the question. The cavalry would confiscate the weapon before he had a chance to get his hands on it.

“In that case, we’re going to need a better strategy than the one we have now,” he said.

“And what would that be?”

Her skepticism was apparent. To that, Baskerville said, “Don’t you believe God will get us out of this? He led you here to save this town. He wouldn’t let it escape a flood only to fall into the hands of some miscreant band of the cavalry.” Or at least that’s how Baskerville reasoned it would work, if God existed. “I suggest you continue building up the wall, and maybe see about getting more guns—for self-defense, of course. We will not act unless the cavalry comes at us first.”

Augustina nodded. “I have already considered this. But I don’t know how we’ll get more guns when we can’t even leave Edén. Our enemies will know. They are always watching.”

Baskerville wanted to ask how she knew this, but he supposed the town could be under constant surveillance, if he knew anything about the cavalry’s commander. But could this mean the soldiers saw him enter Edén? This could be very bad.

“We’ll try to arrange something,” Augustina said, “but you must’ve had a long journey.” She gestured to the cot. “Please, even under the circumstances, do rest. It’s getting close to dinner, and despite what’s been happening, the people had been talking about having a fiesta for you.”

“A _fiesta_?”

Her troubled look finally dissipated, and her full lips curved up in an angelic smile. Again he noticed how pretty she was. He almost felt sorry for what he had to do later. Almost.

He rubbed his chin. “Well, if that’s what the people want… But we must be ready in case the cavalry strikes.”

“The people are vigilant.” The nun bowed her head. “I will notify you when the fiesta is ready.””

She left him and closed the door, and he listened to her receding footsteps. Going to the window, he let down the curtain. The day was still bright enough to force light through the threadbare blanket.

He’d had no idea any of this would happen. Really, he’d come to this town without any solid plan, except perhaps ask questions without seeming suspicious. But things seemed to be working out in his favor. He was in a position of authority now, and people believed in him. If he could keep up the act, then he could get into the church’s basement to find this “weapon.”

He went over to the storage trunk and found it empty. There were no personal articles Father Michael had left behind, and Baskerville wondered how long the priest had been in Edén before he was killed.

 _Assassinated._ There was no way a town like this could be seen as enemies of the state. The people appeared peaceful, though poor. They weren’t a renegade Indian tribe, which the cavalry was often busy pursuing.

The whole scenario reeked of one man.

Baskerville sat down on the cot, and it creaked under his weight. He took his Bible and opened it. The pages fell open instantly to the Eto Gun’s manual. It was the only information he had to go on, and it wasn’t much. The diagram of the gun merely pointed out the various aspects of the gun’s body, and other information was minimal. It described using animals from the Chinese Zodiac to power its bullets. He’d carried this page with him since the day he joined the Syndicate. It was frustrating he didn’t have more, and he had a feeling the Syndicate Boss was holding something back. The most pertinent piece of information was that the gun had been constructed by a Chinese man. As far as Baskerville could see, there were no Chinese men in Edén.

The entire organization was looking for this odd gun, but every member seemed to be doing it for their own reasons. Money was a good incentive, and status lured others. But revenge fueled Baskerville’s search. He believed he was getting close now. His heart hammered with anticipation, and he had to remind himself to be patient.

 

* * *

 

Sister Augustina returned to retrieve him that evening. He’d been dozing on the cot when she arrived. The light outside the window had dimmed to near darkness, and Baskerville hadn’t realized how late it was. When he answered the door, Augustina held a lamp.

“The fiesta is set,” the nun reported with some pride. The lamp cast a warm glow over her face, which was made lovelier by the coif and veil accentuating her features. “The people are eager to officially receive you.”

Baskerville chuckled sheepishly. “It seems an awful lot to do for a simple priest. I’ve never had anyone throw a party for me just because I showed up.”

Augustina’s eyes sparkled with happiness. “You are the answer to our prayers, Father Baskerville. It’s the least we can do.”

Rising from the bed, he answered, “Then the people deserve to have a night of joy before facing another dangerous day.”

The nun led him outside to the plaza. Long tables had been set up, packed with food and plates and utensils. A central bonfire burned in the middle of the plaza, and lamps were set on the tables. There were no decorations, but the atmosphere was festive and the people were dressed in their best, even the guards posted on the wall.

Augustina guided Baskerville to a table nearest the church and seated him at its head. She sat adjacent to him, and an older fellow sat on his other side. The man face’s was leathery and lined from working under the sun since childhood. His warm gaze reflected accumulated years of wisdom, and his white goatee and hair was trimmed neatly. Although his clothes were crisp and clean, his white shirt tucked into brown trousers belted at his waist.

When Augustina took her seat, she motioned to the old man. “Father Baskerville, this is Alejandro Ramírez Iglesias, one of the village elders.”

The old man nodded to Baskerville. “I was out in the fields when you came in and did not have a chance to meet with you.”

Baskerville settled in his seat and pulled his plate forward. “Fields? You mean you actually farm around here?”

Alejandro smiled. “It always surprises visitors when we tell them that. Yes, we farm. Our fields are behind the village, on the slope of the mountain.”

“Where do you get the water? I didn’t see any water around here when I arrived.”

“Water comes down from the mountain.”

It took a moment for Baskerville to grasp what he was saying. “You mean…water comes down from the mountain when it rains?”

“Our village sits at the end of a mountain canyon. When the rains come, the water flows down the canyon and spills out onto the plain. The water seeps into the ground and is stored there. We use that water for irrigation.”

Baskerville’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Human ingenuity never ceases to amaze me.”

People were beginning to fill the plaza. Children and dogs raced about in their games, laughing and barking, while adults continued to bring bowls and plates of food. Some had seated themselves and selected food. The sky had darkened, and the bonfire cast flickering light on the animated faces of the people. Many of them peered at Baskerville with interest and approval.

A woman with a bowl laden with beans scooped some onto Baskerville’s plate. The aroma made his stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten since earlier that morning. Other women came and piled his plate high with food that smelled delicious. Each one spoken graciously to him. No one forgot to let him know how much they appreciated his presence. Baskerville thought that although they appeared poor in material wealth, they were rich with character and heart. And definitely no one was going hungry.

“Edén is a remote place,” Alejandro began. He picked up a spoon and dug into his food. “It must have taken you some time to get here. Tell me, where are you from?”

“I’m from…” Baskerville hesitated. “Well, I’ve lived in many places. I was born back east, in New York.”

“So you are far from home,” Augustina said. “We were expecting a new priest out of Santa Fe.”

“Ah, y-yes, that’s where I came from,” Baskerville said hastily. His face grew warm. “I thought you meant my hometown.”

Alejandro took a drink of water from a clay cup, but a glint had entered the old man’s eyes. Baskerville took notice of this and went on guard.

A man came up beside Augustina and mumbled something to her. She nodded and rose from her seat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but it appears I am needed by a friend.” Her black habit swirled as she turned and left the two men at the table.

The cheerful melody of fiddles and guitars filled the air. People left their food to dance in celebration, women in their twirling dresses and men dancing in rhythm with their female counterparts. The children tried to mimic their movements, and laughed.

As Baskerville watched, he spotted someone familiar. Standing on the periphery of the dance circle was the boy from the cemetery. His face was drawn, and he didn’t seem touched at all by the merriment. He stared listlessly at the dancers, and then turned his eyes to meet Baskerville’s. The false priest felt his heart turn cold. He found he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the boy’s.

“That is Incenio,” Alejandro said.

“I saw him in the cemetery earlier. He was sitting against a large headstone. He looks very sad.”

“He lost his mother when he was just an infant,” the elder explained, his voice growing tender. “And his father was killed by bandits last year.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Indeed it is. But he was also very close to Padre Michael. The Padre was a good influence in Incenio’s life, and the boy sorely needed it.” Alejandro paused as he studied Incenio. “His future is uncertain…and he knows it.”

“He has no family to take care of him?”

A frown pulled at the lines on the elder’s face, deepening them. “Not in Edén, no. He has indicated that he wants to venture out on his own, perhaps to find relatives who will take him in.”

The boy had everything going against him. Baskerville knew what that felt like. Incenio looked to be about thirteen, maybe a little older. _So young, yet already you_ _’ve experienced so much loss_. And Baskerville was about to heap more tragedy upon him, and the village. Should he feel bad about that?

The two men ceased their conversation and began filling their bellies. The boy had disappeared into the crowd, probably to sulk again over his circumstances. It was a good idea Incenio wanted to find better opportunity elsewhere. After Baskerville’s sister died, he knew it was useless to trap himself in a perpetual period of mourning and had to take action.

As the celebration progressed, the activities became livelier. More people left their food to dance, and soon it seemed the whole town was in the plaza dancing or clapping or playing some kind of instrument. But nowhere did Baskerville see the nun. She had been gone for over a half an hour. Her food had long since gone cold.

Baskerville stole a glance at Alejandro. The old man was busy watching a young woman performing a very impressive dance, her colorful skirt, probably the best she owned, spinning in the firelight and casting wild shadows over the jubilant crowd.

Keeping his voice above the din, Baskerville said, “It seems Sister Augustina doesn’t like to talk about the weapon under the church.”

Alejandro jerked to face him. He looked surprised. “No. It would terrify some people.”

“She said she brought it here, but do you know how she got it?”

Alejandro went pale. “You mean she did not tell you?”

“Not yet.”

The elder watched the crowd. He went quiet as if deciding what to say, or not say. Baskerville thought he wasn’t going to tell, but then Alejandro said, “She says she received it from an angel out of Heaven.”

Baskerville almost choked on the water he was drinking. He swallowed and said, “That’s quite a claim. When did this happen?”

“When she was sixteen years old. Oh, she is about twenty-four now… She had a visitation from an angel, and that was when she became a nun. She has carried the holy relic since.”

 _A holy relic given to her from an angel out of Heaven?_ Obviously that wasn’t true. But would Augustina lie about something like that? What reason would she have to lie? Baskerville didn’t know, since he’d only known the nun since that afternoon. He could only conclude that she must’ve gotten the weapon from somewhere else.

“She did tell me about the vision she had of a flood that would hit Edén,” he said. “She thinks she can protect the village with this weapon. Do you know how?”

“In truth, no, I do not know how she plans on using it.”

“Don’t you find that strange?”

The elder threw him a subtle, disbelieving stare. “Padre, do you doubt Sister Augustina?”

Baskerville had to check himself. Conjuring his best acting skills, he smiled at the old man kindly. “Of course I don’t doubt her.”

Alejandro looked uncertain of his statement.

“She seemed worried about the whole situation,” Baskerville added. “With the flood and the cavalry... Seems like the cavalry wasn’t part of her vision. She’s confused.”

“As long as she is here in Edén, she can protect the village.” The elder took a quick drink of water and sat the cup down with a tap. “That is all that matters. I do not believe God will allow the cavalry to steal the weapon. If it is not in her vision, it is not part of God’s plan. She will save Edén.”

Baskerville narrowed an eye but caught himself. Sometimes it was difficult to refrain from reacting to things he found absurd. _The cavalry wasn_ _’t in her dream. If they aren’t part of God’s plan, then why are they here in the first place?_ And where’s the part of her vision where she actually saves Edén? She only knew a flood was coming. The dream didn’t say she would be successful, did it?

But when he looked at the villagers, he wanted to believe that if God existed, he wouldn’t allow good people like this to suffer such a terrible catastrophe. Would he? Yet Baskerville had seen it happen time and again, often at his own hands. And no almighty deity had ever tried to stop _him_.

“May it be so,” was all he could say. To say he believed the nun’s vision would be, well, a lie, and in this case he found he couldn’t admit it. “But I do have one more question. What sort of weapon is—“

Sister Augustina returned to the table, her face a mask of perfect serenity. She didn’t seat herself again, but said, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you tonight. Duties are calling and I must attend them.” With that, she swept away in the direction of the church. Two men and one woman followed at her heels with urgent steps.

“That doesn’t look good,” Baskerville said. He saw the elder’s apprehension. “Do you think something might be wrong?”

“It could be,” said Alejandro. He stood up. “I ought to join them.”

“I’ll go as well—“ Baskerville started, but the elder waved it away.

“Not yet. Eat and enjoy yourself. The people need your presence here. Sister Augustina will call for you when the time is right.” As Alejandro moved toward the church, several people took notice and whispered among themselves.

The fake priest stabbed at a piece of squash with his fork. _So close._ If he had discovered the weapon was a gun, this mission could be done by the end of the night. Unless he met some resistance, he could sneak into the church, snatch the gun, and be out of the village without any bloodshed. He could spare the people further tragedy.

He took a sip of water and eyed the guards on the wall. None of them carried guns, just hoes. How did they expect to fight back with gardening tools against guns and cannons? _I suppose it_ _’s none of my concern how they’re performing this battle._

He ate the rest of the food on his plate.


	3. Chapter 3

It had taken hours for Baskerville to pull away from the townsfolk and make his way back to his sleeping quarters. Their compliments and adoration wore on him and made him a little sick. These people placed so much of their hope in him that he had to wonder what Sister Augustina was to them in first place. She had the weapon that would save them, not him.

When he closed the door to his room, he heaved a sigh. It was late at night, and still these people kept celebrating, unperturbed that the cavalry was watching them from the hills. Would the soldiers attack again tonight? Baskerville wouldn’t put it past them, so he had to be ready. He didn’t have much time to do what he needed to do.

He removed his cassock. Under his official vestments was a white shirt and blue trousers. He tossed the cassock and his hat onto the cot. Tucked away in the garment were knives sheathed in pockets sewn into the lining. Pulling out three, he slid them into his belt. _I won_ _’t likely need them, but just in case…_ It was out of habit that he always carried at least a few. Since Baskerville didn’t carry a gun, they were his only protection. He was more adept at using them than a pistol anyway.

Baskerville took a thin cord and tied his hair back into a tight bun at the back of his head. This would add to his disguise and confuse anyone should they encounter him in the dark, and while dressed in plain clothes he’d be mistaken for a common person instead of a highly-esteemed priest. As long as no one shined a light on his face, his identity should be safe.

Voices carried through the window into his room. When the fake priest had left the fiesta, people were beginning to retire. Some die-hard partiers were still out there, and now with the priest absent, they were likely helping themselves to some strong drink. Good. That way they’d be even less likely to notice him.

One last thing. Baskerville reached into another pocket in the cassock and pulled out a device with a long strap and two lenses. He fastened it to his head. This little present was sent to him last week. A new invention created by the best technology experts in the Syndicate, it was supposed to let him see in the dark. With the lenses over his eyes, he could see with remarkable black-and-white clarity in the dark quarters. He didn’t know how such a thing could be made, and it disturbed him to think of what else the Syndicate was capable of. He’d been a mere underling at first, but had gained status in his efforts to find the Eto Gun. Even so, he felt he still didn’t know much about the organization, the one that had so mercilessly poisoned his sister with “medicine” it had placed in his own hands.

Baskerville shoved the memories away and removed the device, tucking it into the back pocket of his trousers. It was bulky, but secure. Now he could roam without a lamp, which would easily give him away if someone happened upon him.

Ready now, the fake priest slipped out the door and into the church’s sanctuary. The light from a full moon filtered in through the narrow windows. Baskerville placed his hand on one of the pews, feeling the unfinished wood. The tiles on the floor were broken and uneven in some places. The altar could’ve been mistaken for a rectangular crate but for the cross and chalices resting on it. The pulpit was the most prominent feature, with a series of steps curving up to the top of the podium. But, like the rest of the furniture, the design was basic and lacked ornamentation. Again he noted the chandelier and its unlit candles. For a moment he wondered where it had come from, and how it had ended up in a poor village in the middle of nowhere.

Centered high on the back wall was the crucifix, carved with the image of Jesus suffering on the cross, his eyes upturned toward Heaven in misery as sin-bearer of the world. The ultimate sacrifice, made out of love to save humanity from eternal damnation. It was just too bad he wouldn’t be saving Edén from the hand of the cavalry.

Baskerville turned away from the dying Christ and headed toward the door where Sister Augustina had first appeared to him. He knew her quarters were in a building next to his, so this couldn’t be the way in, and since this was the only door in the back of the sanctuary, it made sense this led into the basement.

The deep darkness that met him proved his assumption. The stairs disappeared into the abyss that was the belly of the church. A cold draft puffed at his ankles, smelling dank and musty.

Baskerville took the optical device and put it on. He could see the stairs descend several feet, but the dirt of the basement floor was visible. He glanced behind him at the sanctuary, the world around him appearing as bright as day, but drained of all color. Just like his life. After Chisel died. But when he thought about it again, he saw a tint of red in his vision, the crimson rage that would soon choke the Syndicate Boss on his own blood. The color of vengeance.

He stepped through the door, careful to shut it quietly behind him. The door hadn’t been locked, but then it didn’t have a locking mechanism on it. Why would the nun keep an important relic in the basement without locking the door or posting guards? Didn’t she worry about that? She would regret it. Baskerville, however, was grateful for it.

The stairs squeaked under his boots no matter how carefully he placed his feet. They were loud in his ears. Every few steps he’d stop and listen. All was quiet. As he got close to the bottom, he could see the basement better. It was large with one wall crowded with about fifteen barrels of what was likely wine. There were broken chairs, old pews, and a motley assortment of statues, maintenance tools, icons, and other church materials used in services. All were collecting a layer of dust.

Directing his attention to the packed dirt floor, Baskerville could make out faint footprints. Most the prints led toward the back of the basement. He followed them. The tracks clustered around a point along the back wall. The space was cluttered with boxes, crates, empty barrels, and statues missing heads, arms, and bases. Baskerville thought the people really needed to  clean this place out. _If I was a real priest, that_ _’d be the first thing I’d have them do. This basement is a mess._

There was nothing significant among the rubbish. The footprints didn’t reveal any clues, either. There was a stack of crates to his right of all shapes and sizes, and as he was about to go examine them his foot struck something metallic. Peeking out from under a crate was a metal ring, and Baskerville didn’t have to guess what it was. He went to work removing the crates, most of which felt empty. They might’ve been used to transport produce from the fields, and maybe out to sell in other towns.

Once he lifted off the last crate, the hidden cellar door was uncovered and Baskerville pulled the heavy door up. Its loud groan echoed throughout the basement, making Baskerville cringe. He was certain a noise like that could’ve been heard if someone had been standing next to the basement door.

More stairs led down into the cellar, and Baskerville ventured forth. What he met with surprised him. There was an altar dressed with a cloth, and on it sat an ornate cross. Empty shelves lined the walls. The air was colder here and smelled of damp earth. Whatever the cellar had been used for was a mystery, and there was nothing else in the room except the altar and the cross.

This must’ve been where Augustina was before he arrived, but why in the world did she decide to put an altar in a cellar in the basement? He went to the altar and scrutinized it. The rectangular box measured about six feet long and four and a half feet tall. Acting on a hunch, he removed the cross and pulled away the cloth. Though altar was made of stone, it had a wooden lid with the carved image of a cross. He grinned. The lid came up without a sound on its hinges. Baskerville held his breath…and then expelled it in disappointment.

It wasn’t a gun. Rather, it looked like a spear. The shaft was a dark color, probably wood. The point was lighter but Baskerville thought it seemed a little strange. He reached in for the spear, heedless of the supposed holiness of the relic. It was lightweight, as if the whole thing were hollow like the bones of a bird.

Baskerville turned the spear over in his hands. _This can_ _’t be the weapon._ He brought the point up. When he placed his hand behind the flat side of the point, it was visible on the other side. It was made from some kind of stone. He could feel the ripples on the surface where it had been knapped away to shape the body. He gently thumbed the serrated edges and knew this could deliver a deep, clean cut.

There was something intriguing about the stone. Baskerville fished in the front pocket on his shirt and pulled out a small box. He leaned the spear against the altar and opened the box. Only a few matches remained, but he thought this was a valid reason to use one. Removing the device from his head, he was engulfed in total darkness, but he felt for the matches and lit one. He brought the flame around to shine behind the point. It was transparent and colorless, but it glittered as if with so many stars. Baskerville was held in awe. He probed his memory for the type of stone this was. It wasn’t a diamond, that was certain. Was it glass? Baskerville tapped it against the altar. It clinked like a wine glass. This would break with too much force, and not very much force, he surmised.

The flame had crept down the matchstick and the heat reached his fingers. Baskerville blew it out, tossed the match, and put the optical device back on.

Augustina claimed this weapon could protect Edén from a flood. Was she going to beat the water back? Stab at it? She was absolutely insane! And what did the cavalry want with something like this? Did they even know what it was? Maybe they didn’t have a clue. Maybe they only heard the nun carried some powerful weapon and hoped it was something useful, like a cannon or maybe a hoard of dynamite. Pathetic. The entire situation was laughable. Augustina wasn’t going to save Edén, and the cavalry was going to get a useless spear.

 _And I came all this way for nothing._ This trip was a waste of time. The Eto Gun wasn’t here, and he was back at square-one. Now what?

He replaced the spear in its altar exactly the way he’d found it. Then he closed the lid, draped the cloth over the altar, and set the cross back in place. He left the cellar and made sure to cover the door again with the crates, but there was no way to make it look like it had before. Baskerville could only try his best and hope no one noticed.

As he walked back to the stairs, he decided staying any longer in Edén would be meaningless. He would find a horse and abscond into the night. When the nun and the villagers found him gone, they would assume he’d left out of fear.

Baskerville crept up the stairs and out the door, closing it behind him. The party outside had died down, but just as the false priest was about to return to his quarters to prepare for his exit, he smelled something. At first he thought it was the bonfire outside, or smoke issuing from a chimney. Then he heard a shout, and the sky outside the windows glowed orange.

After untying his hair he put the night-seeing device in his back pocket. Baskerville peered out from the church’s front doors. The last of the revelers abandoned the party. The plaza swelled again with people, but they crowded around the well and began filling buckets with water. Others raced by with hoes and other farming tools. When he watched where they went, he saw the source of their terror. There was a large fire somewhere just beyond the town behind the church. His heart dropped. The fields were ablaze. The farms that sustained Edén were going up in smoke. The cavalry had struck, just as he predicted.

Baskerville went to his quarters and readied himself. He slipped out of the church, dressed in his cassock with the Bible tucked under his arm. He made for where he had seen a corral with a horse earlier. No one seemed to notice in the maelstrom, though he tried to keep to the shadows as best he could. Everyone was too busy panicking.

He found the horse trotting about in its corral nervously, snorting and nickering. It reared up when Baskerville tried to approach it. There was a rope draped around a post on the corral, and he took it with the idea that he would create reins once he calmed the animal. His hand was on the gate to open the corral when he saw movement to his right. Baskerville stepped back from the fence. In the fire’s orange radiance, a boy stood staring at him. He had no bucket or farming tool, and didn’t appear in any hurry to help his fellow villagers. His clothes were tattered and his hair shaggy. It was Incenio. The boy watched him passively, but his dark eyes held a question.

Baskerville debated with himself. He could ignore Incenio and leave. The boy would then report that the priest had fled. It would be easy to conclude he abandoned the village to save himself.

A second option was to kill the boy on the spot. Someone might blame the cavalry. But then again they might not. It didn’t matter either way, but Baskerville didn’t think there was a good enough reason to kill Incenio.

The false priest fingered the rope. Something in the boy’s face changed. There was a mixture of pleading and disappointment. _I can_ _’t believe you’re leaving us,_ he seemed to say. _But don_ _’t. Please don’t. Don’t leave us._

Baskerville stiffened. Seeing Incenio triggered a rush of memories, and the scene in front of him changed. A young blond boy stood in a field holding the hand of his little sister, only a toddler. Tears streaked down their faces as flames devoured their farmhouse, their parents trapped inside to burn alive in the inferno.

The blond boy grew older. He stood on a pier surrounded by crates and sacks, looking haggard and tired. His clothes were filthy and his shoes too large for his feet. Someone screamed at him to move faster, and he staggered away under the load he carried. Somewhere nearby, his little sister was on the street corner begging for charity.

The boy became a young man. Tall and thin as a reed, he stood on the side of a bustling street, an endless stream of people flowing by. His gaunt sister was beside him, weeping. She had a spot of blood on the collar of her checkered dress. People passed them by without a care to give.

The vision shifted once more. The young man lifted the lifeless body of his sister from a bed. Blood soaked the front of her dress. He held her and wept, crushing her against him. He begged her to come back. He laid her on the kitchen table and washed her body, careful that not a speck of red remained on her. The next day he purchased a small white coffin, and laid her to rest in a grave he had dug himself. The young man fell to his knees and clutched at the clods of dirt that covered his sister’s mortal remains.

Lost. Powerless. Alone. All these things reflected back at Baskerville from the image of the blond boy—himself. He’d thought his luck improved the day a man approached him about a job, one that would pay well and give his sister the medicine she needed. All he had to do was seek out a certain one-of-a-kind gun. It was as easy as that. And Chisel would be saved. She would have medicine, they would have money, and their lives would be better.

The blond boy faded away, and Incenio remained. This boy had nothing. No family. No money. No place to call home. His best friend, Father Michael, was dead. He was alone. And as Baskerville stood there contemplating this, something in his heart stirred, something that was as long gone as the ancient lake that had filled this valley. In the boy Incenio, Baskerville saw Razy. He could not abandon Razy. He could not abandon that boy who had tried so hard, with so much hope, to save himself and his sister, only to end up alone with a path of carnage behind him.

Baskerville draped the rope back over the post. The horse retreated to the far corner of the corral. He didn’t understand himself, why he was going to do this. This conflict had nothing to do with him. This town had nothing to offer. But this village had put their hope in him. They were scared and alone, with no one else to help them, no one else to care except a cracked nun and a fake priest.

Baskerville thought a moment before speaking. He turned back to the boy. “What are you doing here? You should be helping your neighbors put out the fire.”

“The fields are lost,” Incenio replied. He sounded stronger than he looked. He glowered at the priest. “You were going to leave us.”

Baskerville didn’t deny that, but said, “Let’s go back and help everyone. Even if we can’t save the fields, we can at least keep the fire from spreading into town.”

Incenio didn’t move as he stared at him with suspicion. “I will help them, but you must promise to stay here. If you stay, I will stay. I will help you in whatever you need.”

The boy was loyal. He liked that, but doubted Incenio could be of any use to him.

“I’ll stay,” he conceded. “Let’s go get some tools and help put out the fire.”


	4. Chapter 4

A fine coating of ash covered Baskerville’s cassock, obscuring the blue fabric in gray. His face was smeared with black and his entire body stunk of acrid smoke. He held a garden hoe he had used to help the villagers build trenches to control the fire. It had taken until late morning to get this far, yet some patches still smoldered in a few places where the flames clung to life. These were doused with water.

The people were exhausted. When the false priest finished smothering a crackling pile of charred corn, he stopped to rest. Many had decided to return to the village to discuss this new calamity. Others stayed behind, though the sun rose in the sky and the heat made their bodies dampen with sweat.

Sister Augustina comforted an old woman who knelt sobbing in the ashes. Perhaps this had been her field. There was nothing left now except blackened earth. The arson had been thorough, but the act hadn’t been enough to scorch everything. The fields were expansive for a village of only a hundred people, and half the population were able-bodied adults who could work the land. Baskerville estimated that maybe sixty- to seventy-percent of the fields had been destroyed. Other fields had seen some damage, and the rest remained untouched.

Propping his hands on the butt end of the hoe, Baskerville observed the nun. She was dressed without her veil, her long black hair braided down past her back, and her habit was filthy. She knelt with the old woman and they prayed together. The old woman uttered something in a strangled sob, and Augustina embraced her. Others nearby watched with sympathy.

“She has no family here,” Incenio said as he came to stand beside Baskerville. If earlier he appeared war-torn, today he looked like he’d walked out of Hell. He was covered from head to foot in ash. His face was ruddy from working against the flames. In his hand he hauled a pickaxe, its head resting on the ground beside him. It almost looked too heavy for him to hold, but he’d carried it through the night. “That field was all she had.”

“She still has a house,” Baskerville offered. “It could be much worse. The whole town could’ve burned. In fact, I’m sure that’s what the cavalry is planning next.”

Incenio’s brows came down over his sooty nose. His hair, encrusted with cinders, fell over his eyes and he brushed it aside. “You think so?”

“First the wall, then your fields. Next they’ll blast the wall down again, invade Edén, and burn it to the ground while they steal the weapon out of the church.” Baskerville’s gaze wandered to the village. This town could build walls to Heaven, but it would never be enough to keep the cavalry out. The soldiers had superior weaponry, and better intelligence. Even though he decided to stay, he didn’t know what more he could do for Edén.

The hills were quiet. The cavalry hadn’t left a hint of their presence. It was likely only a few soldiers had done this, but the cavalry couldn’t be far from the village. One could perhaps walk to their camp, if anyone dared to do so.

“Sister Augustina told me the last priest had tried to negotiate peace with the cavalry,” Baskerville said. “Do you know how he had planned on doing that?”

The boy’s response was slow in coming. The priest’s death was still too fresh, and remembering the man at that moment had made him hesitate. “He wanted them to understand the weapon isn’t valuable, because their commander thinks it is. We don’t know why they would want it so badly.”

Baskerville gave the hills a narrow glare. He pulled up the hoe and rested it against his shoulder. “There may yet be a chance to discuss peace with them.”

“What do you mean?” Incenio asked. He looked at him curiously, almost with disbelief. “Padre Michael already tried that. If you try, they’ll kill you like they killed him!”

“I have a different tactic I can use.” But he’d have to do it quickly. The cavalry would likely attack again tonight.

A group of villagers came to the old woman and led her out of the fields. Augustina watched them go and then went to Baskerville. She noted Incenio with some surprise. Her face was drawn with fatigue. She’d worked hard all night, as if she had been infused with holy energy straight from Heaven. But now it was taking its toll.

“They’ll return,” Baskerville said to her.

Augustina straightened at this, her eyes gleaming. “We have almost completed the wall. The people are talking about building another one around the fields.”

It was obvious the nun was no tactician. “The people won’t have time to build a wall around what’s left of the fields, Sister. If they finish the ruined portion at the gates, then that’s good, but I doubt that’ll stop the cavalry when they come prowling again.” He paused to let that sink in. “But I think I might be able to do something.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Incenio asked. “I told you already, they’ll kill you!”

“What are you talking about?” Augustina inquired with a sharp look at the priest. “You’re not actually considering…?”

“I know you think it won’t work, but you have to trust me on this. And trust God that all things will work out for his glory.” He had his doubts about that, but he had to speak their language here. “I think it would be a good idea to get everyone inside the town walls. No one is to leave. Don’t let anyone in or out.”

“Some are talking about leaving the town altogether,” said Augustina, looking pained at the mere thought of it. “They don’t want any more of this.”

“I can’t blame them, but if they leave, the cavalry could suspect they are smuggling the weapon out. They need to stay here until this is resolved.”

Augustina considered his words. It wasn’t much of a plan, but if he was successful...

The nun at last nodded. “All right. But before you do anything, I think it’s time for you to meet the rest of us.”

“’Us’?”

“Those of us who have been doing all the planning.”

 

* * *

 

The two-room adobe house was the home of Goyo and his wife Emilia. They were a young couple without children. Baskerville thought them an odd couple. Emilia was a tall, plump woman with a jovial smile and fire on her tongue. Goyo was surprisingly short compared to his wife, small-boned, sober, and more reserved. One would think these two would be at odds with each other, but they got along quite well, as if their personalities evened each other out. Although young, the two were responsible for carrying out the strategies in the village during attacks, Emilia taking command of the women, and Goyo the men.

Joined with them was Alejandro, along with one other man named Nico. Nico was an unassuming fellow with an unremarkable appearance. He was average in every way possible, in his physical features and clothing. But Augustina remarked that he was the brains behind the building of the wall and much of the tactics used against the cavalry. Nico had a pleasant disposition and a calm exterior. However, Baskerville had to wonder if this was a façade, similar to one he himself often used to fool others.

They were gathered around the table in the kitchen. The table was small, so the women sat while the men stood about. Emilia had just cooked something over the stove some hours before, and the room was infused with the aroma of food. It was mixed with the tangy scent of smoke emanating from the clothing of all in attendance.

“You’re going to do _what_?” Emilia asked Baskerville, her mouth falling open.

“I’m going to try to see if I can’t convince the commander to leave you alone,” he replied.

“And what makes you think you can?” Goyo asked. He crossed his arms, looking doubtful. “We’ve already tried that, and it cost us dearly.”

Baskerville glanced at each person in the room. Should he tell them? If he did, they’d ask questions, ones he’d have to answer with lies. He took some time to decide while the others watched him intently. He noted the mild suspicion on Alejandro’s face.

“I think I can help because I happen to know the commander,” Baskerville said. “He’s a general.”

Augustina leaned forward in her seat at the table as she stared at him in amazement. “How… How do you know him? How do you _know_ it’s him?”

“Actually, I’m not absolutely certain it’s him. But because they want this weapon in the church, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“And how do you know each other?” Alejandro asked with a raised eyebrow. Baskerville got the sense the old man was beginning to question him. Did the elder think something was off about their new priest?

Baskerville was ready for this one. “Before I joined the priesthood, I was in the cavalry. We trained together and fought together. We’re not exactly friends, but as a former associate I might be able to persuade him to leave you alone. He might trust me.” And that was a _big_ _“_ might.” “I may have a better chance than Father Michael did, since Father Michael was a stranger to him.”

The others exchanged uncertain looks. He could see their doubt, yet some surprise at their new priest. What a coincidence he would have a connection to the very man leading the cavalry. Baskerville couldn’t believe it, either. He couldn’t believe his misfortune at being placed in this situation. Then again, he had chosen to stay here, hadn’t he? He remembered Incenio. The boy was outside helping an elderly couple gather what was left of the food in their fields. Others were doing likewise for fear the cavalry would return to finish the job.

“Then someone ought to go with you,” Augustina suggested. “Someone who can help you in case you run into danger.”

“No,” said Baskerville. He waved the idea away. “I’ll go alone, it’s safer that way. I would prefer no one else get hurt, and I can manage if things go bad.” His confidence must’ve shown because they appeared a little more at ease.

“When will you go?” Goyo asked. “We need to make a move before the cavalry comes back.”

“This evening,” Baskerville replied. “As soon as the sun sets—“

“But why so late?” Augustina cut in. “Why not now, when there is still light?”

“I want to get the general alone, rather than alarm the whole contingent. It would be easier for me to infiltrate the group in the dark. I’m used to it because I  used to do it when I was in the cavalry.”

Everyone seemed pleased that their priest had some valuable skills to add to the fight. When Baskerville realized this, he felt proud.

“No one here needs to worry about me,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I can handle difficult situations like this.”

The nun returned his smile, her face aglow with renewed courage. When she looked like that, with her face framed by the coif, Baskerville had to admit again that she was pretty. Such a shame she was celibate, and that he had to pretend to be the same. Oh, and she was crazy. He couldn’t forget that.

Nico, quiet up to this point, said, “What is this general’s name?”

“Blush,” Baskerville replied. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, as if he’d swallowed a shot of rattlesnake venom. “He’s not to be trifled with. He’s cunning and brutal and won’t show you the slightest mercy if he decides to take Edén. That’s why I have to show him he has nothing to gain.” By addressing Blush’s overinflated ego, Baskerville might be able to discourage him. If the man has his way, there will be nothing left of this town. It’ll be like the ashes in the fields.

 

* * *

 

The night came quickly. Baskerville had spent most of the day helping the villagers finish rebuilding the wall under Nico’s command. The hours had evaporated like puddles of water in the hot desert. Nico possessed a powerful authority and rallied the people together into teams that made the bricks and salvaged old ones to repair the hole. Incenio put his back into the work, keeping himself close to Baskerville everywhere the false priest went. The boy watched him, seeming encouraged by the man’s work ethic. Growing up, Baskerville didn’t have a good influence or example to guide him. He only knew he wanted his sister to be happy, and acted in ways that pleased her. Incenio was probably craving a role model since losing his father and Father Michael.

Just before the sun was about to set, the wall was completed. The people celebrated by passing around corn beer. Women began cooking dinner, but since the loss of so much of their fields, they’d begun to ration the food supply.

Baskerville slipped away from the crowd, passing up the corn beer and choosing to skip dinner. His task was just beginning. Although weary from the day’s labor, he went back to his quarters and changed out of his cassock. This time he would take his knives on a belt strapped around his torso under his shirt. As soon as darkness fell he would fasten on the night-seeing lenses.

Lying on the cot, Baskerville waited for nightfall. Outside his window the people were still celebrating the wall’s completion. Nico had ordered that the walls near the gate be doubled in thickness, but they didn’t get far. If all went well tonight and the cavalry didn’t attack, the people could continue the work tomorrow, thickening the wall as far around the village as they could.

_Thickening the wall isn_ _’t going to help,_ Baskerville thought. He stared at the crucifix above the desk across from him. _And I don_ _’t think God is going to help, either._ He believed Edén’s best chance was with him. And if that didn’t work…

His thoughts returned to Blush. He’d heard Blush was in the cavalry. It’d been years since they last saw each other, and he never thought he’d see the man this far west. But if Blush was here, and he knew about this so-called “weapon” in the church, the general had to believe this weapon was one of the two guns the Syndicate sought.

Baskerville knew next to nothing about the second gun, only that it existed. He’d been sent to find the Eto Gun, but heard others in the Syndicate were searching for its “brother.” After a thorough search back east, the Syndicate Boss concluded the Eto Gun was somewhere out West, but could the other one be out here as well? It made sense considering their inventor was the same person, who may have carried both guns with him.

Baskerville dozed for a while, and when he opened his eyes the sky outside his window was black. Faint stars were visible. He rose from the cot.

After a discussion with Nico earlier, Baskerville found out where the cavalry was most likely stationed. The watchmen on the walls knew the mountain canyon where the contingent had come down in previous attacks. Just follow that canyon, they said, and it would lead him to the camp.

The celebration outside had died down. The fake priest tied his hair back and put on the night-vision lenses.

As he entered the church from his quarters, Baskerville stopped and ducked behind a pew. A light moved down the aisle toward the altar. He peeked over the seats and found Sister Augustina walking with an oil lamp. Her ebony eyes were wide. She seemed to float over the floor in a trance. Her face was pale, and her black habit fluttered behind her. For a moment she looked more like a reaper of death than a pious nun. She silently approached the door to the basement, opened it, and disappeared into the depths. The door closed without a sound. There were no groans or squeaks from the stairs.

_Eerie. She_ _’s probably going to check on the spear._ Would she also perform some kind of religious ritual during her visit? Baskerville felt his skin crawl, which prompted him to hurry for the church’s front doors.

He breathed in the night air. It was cool, almost chilly, and still pungent with smoke. Small fires dotted the plaza and guttered in a breeze, causing light and shadow to pulse over the adobe houses. Baskerville kept to the darkness. Rather than exit the town from the gates, where any cavalry spies might see him, he chose the backside of the settlement that faced the fields. Here one house was close to the wall, close enough that he could jump the distance and climb to the top of the wall. It didn’t appear anyone was home, though they might be asleep. He used the window sill to give him a boost to the roof, and the _vigas_ —the beams sticking out in a horizontal row from the roof—gave him a handhold.

As he suspected, the distance to the wall was short enough. Since the wall was higher, he had to grab on with his hands and haul himself over the edge. He wasted no time getting over as he didn’t want the watchmen to see him. The wall’s bricks weren’t very flush, allowing him to get somewhat of a foothold and climb down.

The black fields lay before him, and beyond that the mountains, outlined by the wide swath of the Milky Way behind them. With his lenses, Baskerville could see one prominent canyon leading out of the mountains, the one responsible for creating the alluvial fan that stored water for the fields. He remembered Augustina’s dream about a flood that would threaten Edén. Some distant storm could unleash a flash flood down that canyon, and if it were severe enough the water could reach town. But he couldn’t imagine a flood that large coming from the canyon.

It took Baskerville about twenty minutes to cross the fields. After that he began climbing the trail up the canyon. There were obvious signs that many people had passed this way, countless hoof prints and at one point he found a few empty whiskey bottles on the ground. The evidence became more numerous with empty cans, horse droppings, a pair of ratty socks, and a broken bridle.

The trail continued to incline. Baskerville walked another half an hour before halting. Voices, raucous and careless, drifted toward him. Then the glow from the fires came into view. The trail began to level out, and the canyon widened into an open space large enough to hold an encampment of about fifty men. Baskerville estimated that about half the camp was already asleep, but some stayed to converse around their fires. Horses stood lined up at the other end of the camp, along with some wagons containing supplies. What caught Baskerville’s eye, however, were the three cannons resting in a row beside the wagons. Three? That would be more than enough to pulverize Edén’s doubled walls.

Baskerville moved around the periphery of the camp. He didn’t see Blush among the men who were awake, but one tent stood out among the others. It was larger than the rest and it had been pitched in the middle of the site. A light glowed within it, and one large shadow moved about inside.

It would be quick work to slaughter the soldiers. Baskerville would emerge from the darkness like some phantom nightmare out of legends and each man would receive a blade between the eyes. Blush would be the lone survivor. The message would be clear, and the man would receive a reprimand from the Syndicate for failing to protect his assets. He may even be eliminated from the organization altogether.

Baskerville reached into his shirt for the first knife, but his hand stopped on the hilt. The crunch of gravel under someone’s foot alerted him. He kept his fingers on the knife and listened as the sound came again, closer this time. Although the noise stopped, he could sense eyes on him. A night guard, perhaps. The sound came from behind and to the left of him. He waited, but nothing happened.

The whisper was almost too soft to hear. “Padre.”

Baskerville’s heart dropped. He tore off the optical device. Turning slowly, he saw the faint outline of a short figure. He stared at it, aghast.

“I-Incenio?” he stammered. Heat rose to his cheeks. He kept his voice a harsh whisper. “What in God’s good name are you doing here?”

The boy came forward. He held a lantern, but the light had been snuffed, probably upon his arrival in the camp. “I saw you leave town,” he replied. “I wanted to go with you.”

“Did you climb over the _wall_?”

Incenio nodded. “I followed you every step of the way.”

“This isn’t a task for a child!”

“But I want to help you. And I’m not a child.”

“You can’t do anything!”

The boy’s shoulders dropped. He shifted, and Baskerville noticed the thing in Incenio’s other hand: A rifle.

“I can, too, help,” the boy asserted. “I’ll watch from here and make sure no one tries to hurt you. I’ll cover your back.”

The fake priest was flabbergasted. How had he not noticed Incenio following him? The boy had a lantern, for God’s sake! He should’ve seen it.

“No,” he said. “You need to stay here—no, go back to Edén. I won’t allow you to risk yourself like this.”

Incenio gave him a lookover. “Why are you dressed like that? Where is your cassock? How will the soldiers know you’re a priest?”

“I—I left it behind because it—it’s too cumbersome to move in. If I need to run, it’s easier to run in plain clothes.”

His little tagalong didn’t look satisfied with this explanation. “What were you reaching for in your shirt?”

“N-Nothing. Just an itch.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Uhhh…”

The boy’s eyes narrowed.

Slaughtering the camp was out of the question now. He couldn’t have Incenio watching the whole thing. But the boy already knew too much. First he witnessed Baskerville on the verge of fleeing Edén. Now the priest was acting suspiciously once again. Indeed, why was he dressed in plain clothes, lurking around like a skilled assassin? And how was he able to see without a lantern?

“You’re not a priest, are you?” Incenio said.

“That’s preposterous! Of course I’m a priest.”

“You haven’t performed Mass since you got here.”

“I—I haven’t had time!”

“If you _are_ a priest, then you are certainly a _bad_ one.”

Baskerville vented an exasperated sigh. “Incenio, I don’t have time for this. I need to go down in the camp. I want you to stay here and don’t do anything—“

“Stupid? Seems pretty stupid what _you_ _’re_ doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Baskerville glanced back at the tents. With the boy present, he would have to wait until the men were all asleep. That meant approaching Blush while the man was sleeping. He hated to do that. Blush wasn’t that complacent and would easily awaken.

“I’ll still cover you,” the boy said, lifting the rifle.

Baskerville gritted his teeth. He could argue with Incenio until the sun came up, and still the boy wouldn’t budge. Again he saw that reflection of himself: Stubborn and persistent, getting what he wanted without ever giving up.

Incenio stood with his feet planted apart and held the rifle as if daring him to refuse once more.

“Just don’t do anything rash,” Baskerville acceded at last. “If things get bad, I want you to run back to the village and tell everyone what happened. And get ready for another attack.”

“You said you knew this man. He isn’t your friend?”

“You were listening this morning? I thought I told you to help…” He sighed. “No, he’s not my friend. We just know each other, and…really don’t like each other.”

By now the camp had mostly settled down. Few men remained. Soon it would be time to make his move. The light in the big tent had gone out.

It wasn’t until the last man went to his tent that Baskerville left his place. After commanding the boy to stay in that spot, he sneaked into the camp and toward the big tent, moving as quietly as a cougar.


	5. Chapter 5

Blush hadn’t stationed any guards. Was he that complacent in the belief the village wouldn’t retaliate? Baskerville snorted to himself. _Sometimes that man_ _’s ego is so enormous he thinks he’s invincible. What an idiot._ But he wasn’t so much of an idiot that Baskerville could afford to let his guard down.

Snoring rumbled out from the dark tents. The false priest moved as quietly as he could with the gravel under his feet, but he knew a light sleeper could be disturbed, and he had to consider Incenio’s safety. It would haunt him should the boy be killed.

He came near to the big tent. Baskerville drew a knife from the belt. With his other hand he pushed aside the door flap.

The bedding was empty. He stared at it in disbelief. Blush hadn’t been out in the camp earlier, and he never left the tent. Could Baskerville be wrong? Was the commander of this unit a different person?

But _where_ was the owner of this tent?

As he stood there, Baskerville felt his skin prickle.

“Well, this is a first,” came a voice behind him. “Never thought I would catch you like this. Good thing I decided to take the first watch before hitting the sack.”

Baskerville remained still. Sudden movement could spell doom. One of the biggest rules in the Syndicate was against killing other members. But Blush held no scruples against breaking rules. Even with his back to the man, Baskerville could feel the grin that cracked wide over Blush’s face like the hard barrel of a gun against his head.

“Blush,” he said, keeping his words soft, “I’m not here to give you trouble.”

“Then what’s with the sneaking around?” Blush demanded. “Turn around.”

Baskerville complied. He put his hands up, the knife still in one hand, and inched around.

“What’s that thing on your face?” Blush asked with a scowl. If he wasn’t such an asshole, he might be considered somewhat handsome. He had strong, chiseled features, full lips, and a wealth of wild, light blond hair. He’d removed his shades and hat, but he wore the cavalry uniform. Being a general must’ve been easy for him because his whole appearance commanded fear and respect. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a muscular build that was obvious under his clothes. When he glared, Blush could burn a hole straight through the Rocky Mountains. His aura exuded danger.

“It lets me see in the dark,” Baskerville explained. He pulled the device off. “I received it recently from the Syndicate.”

Blush grunted and planted his hands on his hips. “Why do they give you all the goodies?”

“That’s beside the point. Listen, I came to tell you that you’re making a big mistake. The weapon down in that town, it’s—“

Blush’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How do you know about the weapon?”

“Because I’ve been in that town for the last few days. I know what it is.”

The general paused. “And what are _you_ doing in that town?”

“Doing the same thing you are. But we’re both wrong. What we seek is not in Edén, because the weapon there isn’t a gun at all. The people believe it’s some holy relic.”

Blush frowned, and then sneered. “I know what you’re trying to pull here.” He pointed a stiff finger into Baskerville’s chest. “You’re trying to throw me off the trail. You want that gun so you can steal my bonus!”

The last word had been shouted, making Baskerville flinch. “I don’t care about any bonuses. I’m telling you to stop wasting your resources.”

Blush gave a low chuckle. “Of course, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t level an entire town unless you knew there was a rare gun there.”

“Exactly.”

The grin vanished. “And why should I believe you, that this weapon isn’t a gun?”

“If you’re planning to invade Edén, you’ll realize I was right. Save yourself the trouble and leave.”

Silence descended between them as they stared at each other. Baskerville tried to stay relaxed, but he tensed at the general’s toxic glare.

“You think you’re clever coming into my camp, acting like my friend to warn me about ‘wasting’ my resources,” Blush said. “I know you better than that. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what a liar you are. You know the weapon is one of those two guns. You’ve seen it. And now you’re trying to get rid of the competition.”

Baskerville wanted to pull his hair out. “That’s not what I’m trying to do!”

“If it’s not one of the guns, then why haven’t _you_ left that town? Why bother telling me about it? You’re wasting your resources as well as I am.”

The general wouldn’t understand about Incenio. He would accuse Baskerville of “going soft,” trying to save a town full of innocent people, when before it wouldn’t have mattered either way to the false priest.

While he tried to concoct an answer, Blush said, “Just as I thought.” His hands were at his sides, hovering over those infamous guns. “You’re lying.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Baskerville said with a wary glance at the guns. “You know what the Syndicate will do if you kill me.”

“Who said I was going to kill you?” Blush yanked one of the guns from its holster. He shot into the ground beside him, sending up a cloud of dust. The roar rolled over the camp and echoed against the mountains. Baskerville staggered back. Dozens of lights flared up in the surrounding shelters. Men burst forth with rifles and revolvers at ready. They surrounded their general and his visitor.

“Seems we have an intruder, boys,” said Blush. “Came from the village to make trouble. Thought he could sabotage our plans.” He chuckled. “Let’s say we give him the same treatment we did their priest. Men, he’s all yours.” He stepped away, and the men closed in with their guns.

 

* * *

 

Horrified, Incenio watched as the soldiers moved in on the priest. He had followed the man knowing very well this might happen, but now that it was happening he realized how dangerous the decision had been. He brought up the rifle and tried to figure out which of the dozens of men he should aim at first.

He wouldn’t need to. What happened next left him breathless. The priest moved in a blur, and several soldiers screamed in agony and collapsed. The remaining unharmed men lifted their weapons. Their guns spat fire, flashing and rumbling over the stony walls around the encampment. Incenio dropped to the ground and covered his ears. Shouts followed, and the men gave chase. The big blond man who had been speaking with the priest stood at ease and observed.

 In the darkness it was difficult to tell which way Baskerville had fled. Incenio knew these mountains, however, and there were several trails that led in and out of this place. The last of the soldiers disappeared into the night, leaving the blond man and two others behind. They saw to the injured men on the ground who writhed and grasped at their bodies. Others lay still.

Incenio had little hope the priest would survive, but as he looked down at all the wounded men—about ten or more—he wondered if maybe the man did have a chance. Baskerville hadn’t used a gun, and yet managed to not only escape, but take out several enemies in one hit. How in the world did he do that? What kind of priest does _that_?

It briefly crossed his mind to shoot the big man, but another problem grabbed him. More rifles cracked in the distance. A man shouted something. They were getting further away. The blond man barked at the two uninjured men and pointed in the direction of Edén. The two men then swung up onto some horses and sped off down the main trail. Incenio’s heart plummeted. They were planning something. Without a horse, he would never catch up to them or beat them back to the village.

Taking up his rifle, Incenio abandoned his position. He rushed down the trail after the men on horseback. He’d left behind the lantern, so he had only the moonlight to guide him. Rocks and pebbles scattered under his feet. Once, he tripped over a small, bone dry log that had been washed down the gully long ago. The boy ignored the scrapes on his knees, elbows, and hands and continued down the trail.

By the time he got to the end, he saw the red glow. The remaining fields were aflame, but the men on horseback were nowhere to be found. Their work had been quick. The villagers probably didn’t know about the fire yet, so he pumped his legs to get to the wall, scrambled up, and tumbled down the other side. He then flew through the streets, pounding on doors and shouting, “Fire! The fields are on fire! Hurry!”

The people were roused. Dressed in nightclothes, men and women hastened to put on shoes and jackets and get to the well. Others took up their gardening tools. Incenio didn’t answer any questions, only saying it was the cavalry’s fault. The people were in a frenzy, hustling to get buckets of water to the fields. Terror and anxiety laced the air.

Incenio felt a hand on his shoulder. Nico looked down at him with a calm expression that was out of place in the chaos. He was fully dressed, as if he had anticipated trouble this night and hadn’t bothered putting on nightclothes.

“The Padre isn’t back?” Nico asked.

“No,” replied Incenio. “He—“ His gaze flicked to the fields. “He’s still out there. The soldiers, they chased him.”

“Then we may expect another dead priest at the gates in the morning. We should’ve known better.”

“He’s _not_ going to die!”

Nico didn’t argue. He left the boy to help the others.

Incenio found an unattended bucket sitting upside-down next to a house and took it up. He leaned his rifle against a house and joined the villagers at the well.

He was almost out the front gates with his full bucket when he heard thunder. The sound rattled his core. He took a few more steps and stopped. That wasn’t thunder, they were explosions. Screams followed. Incenio dropped his bucket, spilling the water at his feet. He could see the fire and sparks spitting out with each explosion that rocked the air.

People scrambled past him to get back into the village. Someone had their arm slung over the shoulder of another as they limped by. There were shouts to return to the village. Others yelled that the cavalry was after them. Fire leaped from the weapons in the distance. Something collided into the earth near Incenio, spraying dirt and knocking him down. He coughed and struggled to his feet. He could make out a crater to his right. The breath caught in his throat. _Cannons! They_ _’re shooting cannons at us!_ How did the men get those things down the hills so quickly? Weren’t most of the soldiers chasing the priest?

He didn’t have time to think about it. He dashed back into the village. Soon after he set foot in the plaza the gates were closed. Men hurried along the wall and below the gates to secure the doors, and then they ran from their positions. Just like last time, the people were helpless against the weapons of the cavalry and could only huddle in their homes to wait out the assault. Men and women, and even some children, clutched tools or makeshift weapons in case the soldiers managed to get inside. Incenio stood by the well as he listened to the cannons.

Then, the explosions ceased. An uneasy silence followed. Smoke from the fields drifted over the plaza, and the people trembled.

Incenio watched the wall. Why did the cannons stop? He had been certain this would be Edén’s final hour.

He fell back when the gates broke open. One of the doors ripped off the wall and came crashing down, blowing dust through the plaza. The other dangled precariously on its hinges with a groan. The wooden beam that had acted as a bar was splintered and useless.

The people fled further into the village and toward the back wall. Now with the gates blown wide open, their chances of survival were slim. Edén could not stand up to that kind of firepower.

Incenio had anticipated another cannonball to come tearing into the plaza, but the assault went quiet again. He waited by the well, unable to pull away as he stared at the blackness beyond the gate, expecting the Grim Reaper to come gliding in to swing its scythe at his head.

The dust began to settle. Villagers crept out from their hiding places in wary curiosity, gripping their weapons. Nico stepped up to Incenio, holding a rifle. Goyo lingered behind him cautiously.

“Did they leave?” Incenio asked. “I don’t hear anyone talking or…”

“It must be a trick,” Nico replied, squinting into the night. “They want us to think the fight is over, to draw us out.”

“What do we do now?”

“Nothing.”

“N-Nothing?”

“We wait for them to come inside. We’ll fight to the very last.”

The boy’s heart raced. Would they die tonight? He was tempted to run into the church and bring out the weapon to hand over to the cavalry, just to get them to stop.

When he thought of the weapon, he thought of Sister Augustina. He didn’t see her among the huddled villagers. He guessed she was down in the basement of the church, perhaps expecting the cavalry to storm the church and murder her for the weapon.

“Someone’s coming!” Goyo whispered behind them.

Nico readied his rifle, taking aim at the figure emerging through the gaping village entrance. It tottered along with a limp. One hand grasped a shoulder. Long hair swayed about.

“That…That’s the Padre!” said Incenio. He hurried over to the injured priest who had collapsed to his knees just inside the village gates. Torches were brought forward by the others to cast light on Baskerville’s bleeding shoulder and leg. He was panting and sweating, looking like he’d run all the way from the canyon. The faint odor of smoke clung to him.

Nico knelt beside him and peered into his face. “Didn’t work, eh?”

Incenio tried to help the priest to his feet. “We don’t have time to talk!” The man was too heavy for him to lift alone, and Nico wasn’t making any move to help.

“No,” Baskerville said in reply to the tactician. His long hair stuck to his sweaty face.

Shadows wavered over Nico tight expression. “Then we’d better see to your wounds before the soldiers start again.”

The priest shook his head. “They won’t. They’re…not there anymore.””

“They’re gone? Why?”

Baskerville didn’t respond. He drooped toward the ground and Incenio tried to prop him up again. Finally, Nico shifted the rifle to his other hand and put the priest’s arm over his shoulder. Goyo came in and assisted on the other side. They took him back to the padre’s quarters in the church. The people crowded behind in dismay.

 

* * *

 

The soldiers had almost succeeded. Bullets had grazed Baskerville’s left arm and right thigh, and although the wounds weren’t serious, they had been enough to slow his return to the village earlier.

Nico and Goyo eased Baskerville down onto his cot in the padre’s quarters. Incenio hung back, looking worried.

A few women came into the room, carrying a steaming bowl of hot water and some clean rags to help wash and treat Baskerville’s wounds. As they buzzed around him, Nico and Goyo conversed in low voices, casting puzzled glances at their priest. He wasn’t in his cassock.

The soldiers didn’t return to blasting the village. Even though most people in town spoke Spanish, a few English-speaking residents came back with reports of corpses lying outside the gate. Three villagers who were killed were brought back to be prepared for burial, even though the cemetery was outside the gates and it had become too dangerous to leave the walls. Some suggested they ought to start a new cemetery in the limited space beside the church.

Baskerville had been in such haste to stop the cannonfire that he hadn’t considered the evidence left behind. Six dead soldiers were found, each one with a knife in his head or heart. As far as anyone in the village knew, no one used knives as weapons. That left Baskerville, the newcomer. But he was a priest, not a killer…right?

Once the bleeding had been stemmed, Baskerville’s wounds were cleaned and wrapped and the women departed, leaving Nico and Goyo in the room. Incenio was shooed out the door by the women.

The uncomfortable silence pressed on the room. Baskerville pretended to inspect the bandages so he wouldn’t have to look at the other two men, though there was nothing to see on the bandages. He knew the questions would come.

_I should_ _’ve left after I killed those soldiers. It wouldn’t take much for the villagers to put the pieces together and realize I’m no priest_. But he would’ve died out there in the desert alone. And something else compelled him back through the gates. Indignation burned in his heart at Blush’s refusal to believe him, not that it was surprising. Reacting by sending troops to blast the walls and burn the remaining fields was extreme. There was no need for it. The man could be vengeful when he became riled.

Baskerville himself was feeling a little vengeful. _That bastard is going to pay for what he tried to do to me, and this village. It could_ _’ve been Incenio lying out there dead_.

Nico and Goyo said nothing as they stood and waited. They let Baskerville have his rest until the door opened and Alejandro walked in with a bag in his hand. Sister Augustina followed him, her face pale, as if she had just heard the news of the battle’s aftermath.

_And where were_ you _this whole time, Sister?_

Alejandro stared down his nose at him while the nun cast nervous glances from the old man to their supposed priest. The elder’s eyes hardened like the stones on the mountains behind the village.

Alejandro upended the bag and six knives fell on the brick floor with clangs and clatters. Blood stained the blades. The elder crossed his arms over his chest. “Padre Michael was of the Franciscan order. We expected our new priest to be of the same order, but you are clearly not.” He looked to the knives on the floor. “I suppose I cannot blame the others for not noticing during this time. To some it does not make a difference what sort of priest we receive. But I noticed, and it matters to me.”

Alejandro had been suspicious the whole time, but not until now did he have the evidence to prove it. What would they do with their fake priest now?

“You are not a priest, I assume,” said the elder.

Sister Augustina blanched whiter at this statement.

What a foolish woman. Of all people she should’ve been the first to notice they received the wrong priest. It was an oversight on Baskerville’s part for not paying closer attention to details like priestly orders. Being an atheist he couldn’t care less about such particulars. They were all the same to him.

“What did you come here for?” Alejandro demanded. “Did you also come to steal the weapon? Or perhaps you are a _spy_ for the cavalry?”

Baskerville sat up. He winced at the burning sensation from his wounds. “If I were a spy, would I have killed my own comrades? No, I’m not a spy, but yes, you’re right in saying I’m not a priest.”

As he said it, he noticed the door was open and Incenio had put his head through. The boy’s eyes had gone wide.

“Why would do you such a thing as this?” Alejandro asked, gesturing to the knives on the floor. “Who are you?”

“I came here looking for something, and I didn’t find it,” Baskerville admitted.

“Is it also a lie that you know the commander of that cavalry?”

“I do know him, but he wouldn’t believe me—“ He stopped.

“About what?”

Baskerville took a breath. “That the weapon wasn’t what he thought it was. He thinks it’s something powerful.”

“But it _is_ powerful. I am guessing you have already let yourself into the basement to see it for yourself.”

Goyo and Nico glared, and. Augustina’s mouth dropped open. He had treaded upon that sacred space, and he wasn’t even a priest!

“You said you were looking for something,” said Alejandro. “You did not find it. What were you expecting when you came upon the spear?”

Would it matter if he told them? Chances were they wouldn’t have a clue what he was talking about. They may even think it’s another lie.

“A gun,” he replied. “A, uh…special kind of gun.””

The others looked confused.

“The cavalry is attacking us over a gun?” Alejandro asked incredulously. “They have their own guns. They have cannons!”

Baskerville had to be careful here. If it ever got out that he talked too much about the Eto Gun, he could be reprimanded by the Syndicate, or worse.

“It’s a valuable gun,” he said. “The commander and I have been sent by someone to find it.”

“And you dress yourself as a priest to find it?”

“That’s, uh, a long story—“

Nico cut in. “You use it to get people to let their guards down. What a coincidence that we just so happened to need a new priest when you showed up.”

The remark cut deep and Baskerville felt a pang of guilt. The people here had been generous and caring, giving him food and a place to sleep. They had put their hope in him.

_But I_ _’m a fraud. I took advantage of their trust and kindness. Even when I tried to help them I failed._

For a brief moment he thought of Chisel and saw her disappointment.

He said, “So…is this the part where you tell me to leave?”

Alejandro exchanged looks with Augustina. Compassion softened her features.

“A journey to the nearest town would be arduous,” the elder began. “On foot, even more so. The stagecoach will not come this way again until next month. To hand you over to the cavalry would be cruel, as it seems they do not like you. But…”

“From what I heard,” Augustina said, “you stopped those men from firing the cannons. Why did you stay to help us if you didn’t find what you came for?”

Incenio waited at the door. If anyone noticed him, they weren’t eager to make him leave. All eyes were on the fake priest.

“Because I care about what happens to this town,” Baskerville replied. “I admit I came here for another reason, but…I do want to help you. I can’t let Blush get away with this.”

Alejandro clasped his hands behind his back. “I am not sure how much help you can be to us, considering your last plan did not work.”

“At least we know now diplomacy won’t work,” Goyo spoke up with a wry smile. “We only had to try it twice.”

“Does this mean I’m staying?” Baskerville asked.

Alejandro looked to Augustina. “The people will be beside themselves over this. Just when they thought they had their new priest, and thus new hope, they will find it was a farce.” He shook his head. “And he saw our sacred relic without permission. It is like salt in our wounds.”

The nun’s gaze dropped to the floor.

The elder turned to Baskerville. “We will not send you away without provisions. We can spare a horse, some water, and what little food we can afford to give now that our crops have been destroyed.”

“But—I-I can help you. At this point, the cavalry will win—“

“Then we will face them until the very end.” The elder squared his shoulders. “We do not need help from you, as you have been of little help thus far.”

In one last attempt to save himself, Baskerville said, “I can’t believe you would turn me out like this. How long do you think I would last out there?”

“Rest assured, there is a town about fifty miles to the northeast. If you leave early tomorrow morning, you may get there by nightfall.”

Defeat settled on Baskerville’s shoulders like a bag of rocks.


	6. Chapter 6

The morning sun rose over the mountains in the east and spilled light over the land. The cold air that had settled over the village during the night  gave way to warmth, which would soon give way to the stifling heat of mid-summer. The long shadows of the houses shortened. The plaza was still and quiet, save for a dog that had gone sniffing around a trash pile next to one of the homes.

Baskerville walked alone to the village gates. He trailed along a horse, ironically the one he had planned to steal to escape the village not long ago. He kept his head down. His wounds were doing well, and the bandages had been changed that morning, but he could still feel a little pain. He’d been permitted to stay in the padre’s quarters for another night, but no one came to visit, not even Incenio. He knew the reason why.

His cassock and knives had been returned to him, and Alejandro had graciously allowed provisions enough to get him to the next town, which he hoped to reach by nightfall. This final act of kindness stabbed his guilty conscience. Goyo and Nico had accompanied the village elder during the exchange, but said little to Baskerville, and Sister Augustina was not present.

He wanted to leave before anyone saw him, but forgot to take into account the watchmen on the walls. They stared after him, their faces betraying disappointment and anger. The news had traveled fast. Baskerville didn’t know what story they were told, or how Alejandro had portrayed him. Certainly not as a saint.

He stopped just outside the gates. The vast, ancient lake bed spread out before him, and his soul withered. _Which is safer: The doomed village or the wasteland?_ He looked back at the splintered gates and broken walls. They were already being repaired since the previous night. The people had scrambled to fix as much as possible before quitting. The watchmen were enough for now, but even the army had to sleep, and so the night had been uneventful.

The scorched fields sat desolate. Wind stirred the ashes, and if blown at the right angle it would scatter soot into the village. During the height of the fires, ash fell like snow. Some parts of Edén retained a light dusting of gray.

 _They_ _’re going to die._ But there was nothing he could do about that now. They didn’t want him anymore, or his help. _But what more_ can _I do? Blush won_ _’t believe me no matter how hard I try. I give this village another day before he ransacks it._

He climbed into the saddle and started down the road that led to a town called Gold Hill. He scoffed at the name. Towns in wretched places like this always tried to make themselves sound better than they were. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gold Hill turned out to be nothing but a skid mark on the plain, more brown than gold. Alejandro had given him scant information on what to expect, either in town on or on the road, no directions to springs or watering holes or any place of rest, or what dangers lay ahead. The old man only warned him not to stop anywhere for too long, and that Baskerville must push hard if he wanted to make Gold Hill in time.

As the village receded behind him, a small voice called out in his mind, pulling him back, but he refused to listen.

 

* * *

 

Puffy clouds scuttled across the sky, casting their shadows over the desert floor. Baskerville halted his horse, and his ears rang in the silence. He breathed in the stale, hot air and squinted. Two ruts marked the road ahead of him, the encroaching sagebrush threatening to erase it. A sensation of total emptiness opened a void in his breast.

“It’s past noon,” he said to the horse. “We haven’t seen a soul out here since we left Edén. This road looks hardly used, but I’m sure this is the one the stagecoach took after it dropped me off near the village. There aren’t any others.”

The horse dropped its head to nibble at some grass that had somehow managed to stay green. The grass made Baskerville remember the green fields of Edén, and the alluvial fan whose subterranean water supply fed the crops. He was a bit surprised at the sadness that tugged at his heart at the memory of the fires. The villagers had affected him in a special way, with their warmth, care, and the honor they gave him. It wasn’t something he had experienced in many, many years.

 _And the Sister_ _’s vision? Will there really be a flood?_

A flood of soldiers, perhaps. He felt tempted to turn his horse around and gallop back to the village. If the people wouldn’t let him in, he could at least try to find a way to stop Blush on his own.

 _But why should it matter to me?_ He rested his arms on the pommel of the saddle and stared at the road. _Blush tried to kill me. He knew it would be against the Syndicate_ _’s rules to do that. It’s like he thinks he can get away with it!_ Blush had probably caught wind of his exile and was gloating about it right at this moment. _He thinks he_ _’s beaten me_.

He spurred the horse onward.

The next few hours dragged on and seemed like ten. The featureless valley bored him. His mind wandered to the past, to the village and as far back as Chisel. Regret resurfaced. He tried to push it down again, and then his thoughts returned to Blush. Regret, guilt, shame, and rage welled up in his heart like a poisonous spring. He couldn’t stem the flow.

 _The more miles I put behind me, the sooner I can forget about all this. It_ _’s not my fault what Blush is about to do. There’s nothing I—_

A collection of covered wagons came up on his right some distance away. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and strained to see the wagons.

“Something’s not right about that,” Baskerville mumbled. “Let’s go see if they need help. Maybe they’re going the same direction I am and they’ll let me travel with them.”

As he drew closer, however, his blood went cold. Baskerville reached into his cassock to grasp at the knives hidden within. The wagons weren’t moving. Eight in total, sand drifts had built up over the wheels. Tattered shreds of canvas hung limp from the ribs of the roofs, bleached white in the sun. Their decayed, weathered bodies had not withstood the climate well. Boards had fallen away to leave gaping holes. Arrows stuck out from the wood, the fletching split and frayed, and weather-worn rifle lay half buried under a sand drift beside a wheel. Baskerville’s heart raced at the sight of them. He scanned his surroundings for signs of danger, but the arrows were old, long since flown from their strings.

The most unnerving detail was the lack of bodies—or skeletons, rather, if one didn’t count the wagons among the dead. Not a bone could be seen anywhere.

 _There was obviously a battle, and people must_ _’ve died. But where are the remains?_

He dismounted and inspected an arrow lodged in the side of the closest wagon. Though the battle might’ve been years ago, it meant Indians lived around here. The wagons faced the direction of Gold Hill.

“So much for safety in numbers,” he said. “Even a dinky town like Gold Hill sounds good right about now.”

“Those are old arrows. The army probably drove the Indians out a long time ago.”

Baskerville whipped about, knife aimed at the unknown speaker. He relaxed and expelled a breath, shoving the blade back into his cassock. “Incenio! What are you doing here?”

The boy stood with a donkey laden with two bags slung over its hide, and a blanket in place of a saddle. For having almost been stabbed, he appeared unperturbed, though annoyed.

“I had a hard time catching up to you,” the boy said. “I didn’t decide to leave until you’d already left.”

“Why did you leave? You could die out here!”

“And I could die in the village. It was a matter of choosing which way to die.”

“But  why follow me? I faked being a priest. I tried to trick you.”

“You weren’t trying to hurt us. You said you were looking for something.”

Not trying to hurt him? Baskerville had considered _killing_ him at one point. “Listen, you can’t go with me. The place I’m going—the people I deal with, they won’t accept you.”

“ _Please_ , let me go with you.”

“No!”

Incenio jumped at the sharp refusal. “How come?”

“Because they’re—They’re not good people, and…”

The boy waited for him to finish.

“The truth is, it’s dangerous where I’m going, and the people even more so. You just can’t come.”

“They’re killers, then?”

Baskerville cringed. “Yes.”

“Are you a killer?”

The truth clawed its way out of his mouth. “Y…Yes—I-I mean, sometimes, but my primary duty is the find that gun. I’m not an assassin if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Incenio looked down at his feet and scraped the dirt with a toe. “Then perhaps you are right. I don’t want to be a killer. But I don’t want to die in the village, either.”

“You still have time to turn back.”

“I don’t want to. I want to go with you.”

“But I said you can’t!”

“Are your people in the next town, too?”

“Well, no—“

“Then at least let me go with you that far.” The boy’s dark eyes pleaded with him. “After that, I’ll leave you alone.”

Baskerville wanted to argue further, but he faltered when he saw Incenio’s growing desperation, something he had seen Chisel do when she was still alive. She would give that look before he left for another mission. _“Please don’t go, brother. I don’t like being alone. I get scared.”_

Something took hold of Baskerville and his refusal dissolved. He couldn’t leave a young boy alone out here by himself. “Did you bring a gun?”

“I-I forgot one.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Then you’ll need to stay close to me.”

The boy brightened. “You mean I can go with you?”

“Yes, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Incenio nodded solemnly. “I understand.” At least he wasn’t eager to prove how tough he was. People like that always seemed to die more quickly.

Baskerville climbed back into the saddle. “Keep up. We’ll need to move fast. We’ve already wasted enough time here.”

The boy said nothing more as he rushed to mount his donkey.

 

* * *

 

Indigo stained the western horizon by the time they came within reach of Gold Hill. A few pinpricks of light beamed fresh hope into Baskerville’s soul when he saw them. He and the boy had stopped only once at a spring since leaving the abandoned wagons. Now the sweltering heat of the day conceded to the oncoming chill. Baskerville hurried his mount, Incenio close behind.

“What I wouldn’t give for a good bed at a nice hotel,” said Baskerville. His thoughts conjured a feather-soft bed with a down pillow and thick blankets. A smile curved his lips. _Sleeping on that cot in the padre_ _’s quarters didn’t do me any favors._

The town grew nearer, and the dark cloud that had hung over his spirit lifted. Already he was beginning to put the disaster of Edén behind him.

The pair came down a small rise and descended upon Gold Hill, and in the twilight the size of the settlement became apparent. Baskerville had misjudged it. The buildings sprawled into the distance where more lights dotted the blackness. A large cluster of them congregated in the south, which were most likely the mines and stamp mills, an operation that never ceased even for the holiest of holidays.

He stopped his horse to take in the scene. “This place is bigger than I thought it would be. There must be several thousand people here.”

“I had heard it was large,” said Incenio, “but I don’t know much else about it.”

People moved about the streets, and some businesses were still open, saloons and other similar establishments. As the travelers approached the outskirts, the weak tunes of pianos, fiddles, and other instruments trickled to their ears.

“Must be a boomtown that formed recently,” said Baskerville. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Me, neither.”

“First decent hotel I see, we’ll stop.”

It didn’t take them long to find one. A two-story brick building with a wooden balcony drew Baskerville’s attention. Eager as he was, he didn’t bother checking the name of the hotel before dismounting and heading inside. The price mattered little to him, and he exchanged payment with the clerk with few words and much speed. Incenio had stared around with large eyes, as if he’d never seen the inside of a hotel lobby before, which he probably hadn’t. The fact that he seemed so enraptured by such an uninteresting place was telling of what sheltered life he had lived. Baskerville had to break Incenio out of his curiosity to get him to go upstairs to their room.

Only after viewing the simple room with limited amenities did Baskerville gripe about the high price, but he couldn’t complain considering the beds. They still appeared far more comfortable than a cot, with clean linens and unstained pillows. Between the beds was a nightstand where they could sit the oil lamp they’d brought up with them. On the side of the room opposite the window was another table with a wash basin and pitcher.

“Take our rides to the livery next-door,” he said, and stuffed a few coins into the boy’s hand. “Don’t speak to anyone or tell them why you’re here. Lie if you have to.”

“But lying is a sin,” Incenio replied.

“Sometimes you have to lie to protect yourself.”

“Are our lives in danger?”

“Your life can always be in danger, even when it doesn’t seem like it. Anyone can be your enemy.”

“You don’t trust people very much, do you?”

“In my line of work, you can’t.”

“Not even me?”

“W-Well, maybe you I can.”

Incenio appeared pleased with the affirmation. “I’ll be quick.” He ran out the door and disappeared.

Baskerville went to the window to see Icenio dart down the street to the livery stable. He wondered if perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to send his companion out alone, but his quick inspection of the settlement upon arrival put him at ease. He saw no shady characters or anything strange. For a boomtown, the night life was tame. Maybe he was being overly cautious.

Gold Hill might also be a blessing for Incenio. It was large enough, meaning it had multiple industries, and the boy could find work. He would be able to support himself, and Baskerville wouldn’t have to feel guilty about leaving him. Tomorrow, Baskerville could get on the stage and be back on his way to finding the Eto Gun.

With that plan in mind, he settled in and was lying on the bed when Incenio returned. The boy said nothing as he came in, his young face set with a thoughtful expression, as if something bothered him. He went for the sack he’d brought on the trip and started rummaging through its contents.

“Everything all right?” Baskerville asked.

Incenio blinked, and the look vanished. “Oh!” He put the bag aside with nothing to show for his search. “No, everything is fine. Can we go to a saloon?”

The fake priest raised an eyebrow and sat up. “First you tell me lying is a sin, and now you’re asking to see a saloon?”

“I just want to see one on the inside.”

“You’ve never been to one?”

“No. The village is all I’ve known.”

“It’s late. We’ll go tomorrow morning, after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“But it’s more exciting at night! I hear the music, and the people are dancing and laughing.”

Baskerville rubbed a hand over his face. “I have a bad feeling about this. All right, we’ll go, but we won’t stay, not even to eat. We’ll be in and out. Just let me change into some plain clothes.”

 

* * *

 

The saloon stood a few blocks down the street from the hotel. Its small size and the lack of foot traffic relieved Baskerville. He and the boy could keep a low profile in this unpopular place. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized, or draw trouble.

The two-storied saloon was narrow and wedged between two other businesses. Overall it appeared to be a quiet locale, having the name of Eight Trails Saloon. No music or laughter or singing filtered from its double doors.

“This one?” Incenio asked, sounding disappointed. He pointed down the block. “I thought maybe—“

“No, this one will do.” Without awaiting the boy’s reply, he stepped through the doors, eager to get this trip over with.

He squinted in the glow of the gas lights as the musky scent of cigars filled his senses. He paused and gaped. For such a small establishment, the amount of finery astounded him. Carvings adorned the face of the bar on its marble base, the bottles and glasses gleaming on the shelves behind it. Elaborate details rendered the walls and ceiling, drawing the eye to the wrought-iron chandelier. The wallpaper flashed with gold leaf and mica. A card table accompanied five other small dining tables placed throughout the hall. Four men filled chairs at one of the tables, puffing on cigars, and by the looks of their clothes they were probably miners. They murmured quietly among themselves with playing cards in their hands. A piano sat silent in the far corner.

“And here I thought this was a dive,” Baskerville murmured in awe. “It’s not a bad place.”

“Kind of small,” said Incenio, “but it _is_ beautiful.”

They walked over a large ornamental rug to the bar and gazed at the lights reflected in the wide mirror behind the counter. Gas fixtures sat on either side of the mirror, casting their beams over the bottles and glasses.

“Those glasses are crystal,” Baskerville noted in a low voice, “and those drinks look…expensive.”

“This place isn’t very lively,” said Incenio, considering the men at the table.

As Baskerville placed his hand on the edge of the bar he noticed the figure of a spider carved into the wood. He glanced again at the mirror and saw the frosted image of a spider, its legs spreading to the corners of the glass. Overwhelmed by all the details, he had failed to notice the specifics: Spiders, from the designs on the wallpaper to the shape of the chandelier.

“I think I know why,” he said, a growing knot of dread in his stomach.

The boy became hushed as he, too, noticed the specifics.

“Bringing a child into a saloon? That seems a bit much, even for you.”

Baskerville jerked toward the voice. A slight woman wearing a red waistcoat, black skirt, and white apron came tapping toward them in black heeled shoes. A black beaded choker, resembling a spider’s web, graced her neck and dangled with rubies. Her red lips turned up.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” she said. The woman pushed away a white curl from her forehead, returning it to her ebony, upswept hair.

Baskerville’s jaw dropped. “Ahh… Ahhhh!”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? So you _do_ remember me?”

“I—W-Well—“

“It wasn’t that long ago, was it?”

“N-No…”

“I had hoped you’d be happier to see me.”

“ _Merula_?”

“I’m so glad you at least remembered my name,” she said dryly.

Baskerville’s cheeks became unbearably hot. He tugged at his collar and released the top button. “S-Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see any…friends…here.”

“And I’m the last person you would’ve expected,” Merula stated. “So, who’s the boy? A new recruit?”

“No, not at all. He was only traveling with me.”

“I’m not sure our superiors would like that.”

Baskerville shushed her and looked over his shoulder at the few patrons in the saloon. They played their cards, either unaware or uncaring of the newcomers.

“Do you work with this lady?” Incenio asked. He evaluated the saloonkeeper with trepidation.

“He’s not a recruit,” Baskerville said again, firmly this time. “I’m leaving town tomorrow morning, and he’ll stay here.”

“I see,” Merula said. She tapped her cheek. “Is he a runaway?”

“You could say that.”

The saloonkeeper’s green eyes sparkled and she accepted his answer. She motioned to the bottles behind her. “How about a drink?” She nodded at Incenio. “You can only have water.”

“Something weak,” said Baskerville.

Merula snorted. “Water it is, then.”

“Hey…”

“All my drinks are strong, too strong for some of the hardiest men in this town.”

“Is that why business is so slow? I thought it was because of the spiders.”

Merula pouted and sniffed. “Don’t make fun of my cute little spiders. They don’t hurt anyone.”

“Sure they don’t.”

The saloonkeeper giggled and produced a glass of water for Incenio. For Baskerville she went for a bright green bottle on a shelf and poured a golden liquid into a shot glass. She sat it down in front of him with a clack.

“The weakest drink in the house. It’s my own special formula.”

Baskerville smelled the contents and grimaced. “In that case, I’m not sure I should try it.”

“I’m surprised you were willing in the first place. I thought maybe you were still mad at me about last time.”

“Don’t get me started.” He took a sip, waited for the resulting burn, but found the taste agreeable. After downing the rest, he requested another, which Merula was more than happy to provide.

“I thought you said your drinks were too strong for most men?” he said.

“But you’re the strongest man I know,” Merula replied with a wink.

Baskerville blushed.

The saloonkeeper leaned over the bar, coming into his space and causing him to pull back. “It’s a shame we had to part ways,” she said. “I know the Syndicate doesn’t approve of romance between its members, but who says they have to know?”

“They would’ve found out one way or another.”

Merula pouted again and pushed away from the bar.  She went to rinse his glass in a metal tub filled with water. “So what’s your story, kid?” she said to Incenio. “Orphaned? Poor? Have no place to call home?”

Baskerville glowered at her. “Merula…”

Incenio bowed his head, saying nothing.

“It’s a common tale,” the saloonkeeper said, “one too familiar to most of us.” Bitterness tinged her words.

To change the subject, Baskerville said, “How’d you wind up out here?”

“It’s where they sent me. Rumors came back saying at least one of the two guns is somewhere out West. You might run into more of us.”

He had already, but two in a few days’ time? “But are you looking for the gun?”

“No.” She draped a dish towel over her shoulder and turned to him. “They want me as eyes and ears, but I’m also a waypoint. They come for what they need. I’m a supplier, and not just of drinks.”

“You mean weapons and technology. You never did that before. Why the change?”

Merula scratched at her cheek and her shoulders slumped. “Uh, well… Maybe our relationship wasn’t such a secret.”

Baskerville swallowed. “Th-They knew? How?”

“Let’s just say…I’m a repeat offender.”

“So I’m not the first?”

Merula laughed, the rubies on her choker twitching with the movement. Her perfect, straight teeth were stark against her lips. “Does that bother you?”

“I’m not sure. It might explain why they didn’t punish me, too. I guess you could say I’m relieved.”

Incenio, who had been listening, watched Merula with increasing interest. “Did you say you have weapons?”

Merula checked the men gathered at the table. They concentrated on their cards. “That’s not something you need to concern yourself with. In fact, you’ve heard too much already.” She shrugged. “I guess I am too loose.”

Baskerville bit his tongue to keep from responding to that last remark.

“But where do you keep these weapons?” Incenio pressed. “Here in the saloon?”

Merula gave him a sideways look. “Funny a boy should be so interested. Are you sure you’re not a new recruit?”

Baskerville put a hand on Incenio's shoulder. “Come on, Incenio. You’ve seen the saloon. Now let’s get back to the hotel.”

The saloonkeeper pouted again. “Aw, Razy, you don’t need to leave so quickly. The kid and I were just getting acquainted.”

A hairy tarantula crawled around from the back of Merula’s head, its red and black legs taking leisurely steps as it traveled to the top of her hair.

Her two guests scrambled out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Baskerville locked the door after they arrived at their hotel room. On their way back, Incenio had been tight-lipped, but Baskerville could read him well enough to know what was on the boy’s mind.

“No,” he said. “Don’t even think about it.”

“About what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking about asking Merula about the weapons stashed in her saloon.”

“Well, can’t we?”

“Absolutely not. Now you’ve seen the kind of people I work with. I don’t want you getting mixed up with them, and I don’t want to break the rules.”

Incenio frowned. “She seemed like a nice person.”

“You don’t know her the way I do. One wrong move and she’ll have her spiders crawling all over you. You’ll be dead in minutes. Merula’s one of the best assassins in the Syndicate, and one of the most terrifying.”

“Because of the spiders?”

“Exactly.” A shiver shook him when he thought about the creepy little arachnids. “I don’t know where she gets them, but they’re weapons as much as they are pets to her. You don’t see them coming because some of them are so small.”

Incenio went to sit in a chair near the window, drew up his knees, and gazed out at the dark street. He didn’t respond.

Baskerville sat on one of beds and removed his shoes, awaiting a protest from the boy but one never came. _He_ _’s pouting. Why would he be so interested in getting guns from Merula, anyway? I thought he didn’t care about the village anymore?_

He took off his shirt to examine the bandages on his arm. He guessed tomorrow he could remove them and the ones on his leg. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had these kinds of injuries. He healed quickly, and as long as he kept the areas clean, he would be free of infection. He put his shirt back on.

Having only his plain clothes to wear to bed, Baskerville settled in on top of the sheets and folded his hands over his stomach. But sleep would elude him as the saloonkeeper invaded his thoughts. Perhaps he had unfairly painted Merula in a bad light. Though she was an assassin, she wasn’t without compassion. Once, the Boss had the two of them work together to swipe a gun off a rich lumber baron. The man was notorious for having guards with him day and night, and Merula had saved Baskerville from taking a bullet in the gut by knocking him down. Most other Syndicate killers would’ve let him die, counting him as unfortunate casualty in the Syndicate’s mission. He was disposable. That’s how they were all treated. But Merula had seen him differently somehow, for a reason he could never figure out, nor could he decipher an ulterior motive.

After a short while he opened an eye and saw that the lamp still burned. Incenio hadn’t moved from the chair as he stared out the window.

“You should get some sleep,” said Baskerville. To sound encouraging he said, “Tomorrow you will begin a new life. I’m sure someone around here could use a strong young man to help them with a job.”

A brief memory flashed, one of himself standing before a Syndicate lackey who told him the organization could use a “strong young man” of his caliber. The words soured in his mouth.

“Padre Michael would be disappointed in me right now,” said Incenio, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“I only wanted to save myself, and I did. But Padre Michael, he sacrificed himself. He died because he loved Edén and wanted to save everyone. He fought for us.” Incenio chewed his lower lip and squeezed his eyes shut. His next words were strained. “I am a coward.”

Baskerville shrugged. “But what do you have to go back to? You don’t have any family there.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But Alejandro said—”

“I have no _blood_ relatives, but the people there did care about me. In my sorrow, I forgot. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.” The boy considered his hands, as if he could see the smudge of guilt on them. “Padre Michael would ask why I left them all to die. He taught me better than that.” The hands balled into fists. “He taught me that I have something worth fighting for, and that is my home, the village. My father and mother are both buried there.”

Baskerville thought of Chisel’s grave. His sister lay in the lonely decrepitude of their abandoned property, more than two thousand miles away. By now the land was overgrown with weeds and their house falling apart piece by piece. But when she had died, it was no longer a place he had cared to protect. It became void of purpose or value to him.

“So, what are you saying? Do you really want to go back?” he asked.

“I do, but I’m afraid.” Incenio turned to him. ”But if you help me—if we can get that saloonkeeper to help us…”

Baskerville propped himself on an elbow. “I already told you no. You have no idea what you’ll be getting yourself into. It’s too dangerous.”

Incenio jumped out of his chair. “But I have to! I can’t leave everyone to die like that. _We_ can’t do that!”

“Keep your voice down,” Baskerville said between clenched teeth. ”We don’t want to draw attention here.”

“Why don’t you want to help?”

“I tricked everyone into believing I was a priest. They won’t take me back. I don’t even understand why _you_ _’re_ asking me for help.”

“Because you tried to help us, so I know you want to. The army almost killed you for it.”

Baskerville studied him. He sat up on the edge of the bed. “So I tried to help the village once. Did you know I had thought about killing you that night you saw me trying to leave? Do you know how many people have died at my hands? You don’t know who I am. The people in the village only know me as someone who tried to trick them. If they knew the truth…”

Incenio stood resolute. He never flinched despite the confession. “Padre Michael told me something once. He said no matter what I had done in the past, no matter what sins I’ve committed, God will forgive me if I only ask. I can choose to do good now. Everyone can. If I do that, God will forget the bad things I’ve done. Maybe you’ve done some bad things, but you’ve also done some good things. If you hadn’t wanted to help the village, you would’ve killed me like you said you wanted to, but you didn’t. You stayed, and you helped us. You’ve even let me come with you this far.”

Baskerville blew out a long sigh. “You have a point, but the risks are too great. Our chances of warding off the cavalry are slim, especially with Blush heading the operation. That man’s ambition isn’t easy to crush. Even if every villager were armed, the soldiers would still be better equipped. They have cannons.”

“What about the saloonkeeper? Does she have cannons, too?”

“I don’t know what she has.”

“Then we must ask!”

“No! It’s a sure way to get yourself killed. Father Michael would want you to grow up and live a full life.”

“No, he would want me to fight, just as he did.”

No matter how he put it, Baskerville couldn’t seem to drive home how dangerous the idea was. Not even appealing to the dead priest’s memory helped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I won’t do it. Besides, I could be punished for working against Blush. Merula could be punished, too, if she helps us. Do you want that?”

At this the boy hesitated.

“If we fail, I’ll be punished. If we succeed, I’ll be punished. Either way…”

Incenio’s gaze fell to the floor. “No, I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Then you understand?”

“Y…Yes.”

“It’s for your own good. I _am_ sorry about Edén, but it’s beyond my ability to help now.”

The boy said nothing more, and Baskerville laid back on the bed and turned away.

_He_ _’ll regret it for the rest of his life, but I’ll regret it if I don’t get revenge for Chisel’s murder. The Syndicate will kill me for disobeying them. If that happens, I’ll never avenge her._ He knew it was selfish to choose himself over an entire village of people, but he had worked too hard and gone too far to give it all up now.

In the chair by the window, Incenio sat unmoving for a long time.

 

* * *

 

“No, can’t take on anyone,” the grocer had said. “I have enough help.”

“Nope. I don’t hire on kids,” the mail clerk had said, glaring at them from behind his spectacles.

“That boy? He looks like the hammer would break his arm if he tried!” the blacksmith had asserted.

“Him? No way. He’s too small.”

“Really? Are you kidding me?”

“Naw. Not gonna happen.”

“Nope, sorry.”

“No.”

Baskerville was running out of options. Most everywhere else would only hire adults, and even the local preacher had to turn them down because it was hard enough taking care of his own six children, though he said he would ask around. The livery manager was almost willing, except after he did the math he realized he couldn’t afford to pay Incenio. The man had a wife and newborn son, and his fledgling stable business had just started. The hotel owners had looked at the boy with disdain, as if having an orphan of mixed heritage would soil their reputation.

But Baskerville remained undeterred. By the end of the day he had to drag Incenio to each business they could find. The boy was exhausted, and Baskerville guessed it wasn’t just from walking all day. His heart was exhausted from rejection. Towards the afternoon Incenio had started to hang his head, and wouldn’t look his potential employers in the eye, making his chances more difficult.

_He thinks no one wants him. It doesn_ _’t help that even I don’t want him, but I have a good reason._ If he brought Incenio along, the boy would inevitably become involved with the Syndicate. _I can at least spare him that kind of suffering._

The setting sun cast an orange glow over the streets. Gold Hill was a large town, and every street teemed with people. It some ways it reminded Baskerville of New York City, but on a much smaller scale. The only difference was it seemed Gold Hill at least slept at night for the most part. The night life was minimal, though it existed. He pushed on down the next street, which he was sure was the last one for the business district. He hated the thought of going to the outskirts of town or beyond where he had heard there were a few ranches. How far would this search take them?

“We could try the mines,” Incenio suggested, speaking his first words in over two hours.

“No,” said Baskerville, “that sort of work isn’t for boys.”

“But we’ve tried everywhere else. Besides, I saw another kid my age going to the mines just this morning.”

“And they’ll work him to the bone. He might die in those mines. It’s not even legal for him to be there. He probably lied about his age, too, and they didn’t care.”

Incenio stopped, which made his companion stop. “If I don’t find a job by the end of today, I will return to Edén tomorrow.”

“You can’t go back there. The cavalry will—”

“But I _will_ go. Then what will you do?”

A growl threatened to crawl out of Baskerville’s throat. “You can do as you please.”

This answer surprised Incenio. Perhaps he had expected the false priest to feel trapped and agree to help Edén. But if he was so determined to save the village, why didn’t he just go now?

“If that’s how you feel,” Baskerville began, “then go back to Edén. I can’t stop you. But at least let me help you here. I don’t want to stop until we’ve tried absolutely everything.”

Unhappy with this response, Incenio took off down the road. Baskerville called after him, but the boy disappeared around a corner. He thought to give chase, but took one step and decided against it.

_I can_ _’t control what he wants to do, so he can go off and sulk if he wants. I’ll keep going._ Incenio would change his attitude once he landed a job.

Next Baskerville tried a laundry run by a few tough looking ladies, but once he got to speaking with them he found they were quite friendly.

“The boy’s all by himself?” asked one of the women, her dark hair tied back in a tight bun. She stood nearly as tall as Blush, and almost as muscular. The power in her arms swelled against the fabric of her sleeves.

“Poor kid,” said the second woman with a shake of her head. She was slim, but a nasty scar lined her forehead from her right eyebrow to the hairline. Her pale blue eyes reflected a hard life of pain and struggle. “I knew someone like that once. Went from place to place until finally he joined on with some bandits and was never heard from again. Probably killed by the law for all I know.”

“Do you think you could help?” asked Baskerville. Hope filled him. These women had shown more compassion for Incenio’s plight than others had so far. “He needs to earn a little money so he can go find some relatives down south.”

“Sorry, Father,” said the larger woman. She looked saddened to say it. “We got all the help we need here, and we can’t afford to pay another, not even a little. But you’re doin’ a good work for the boy. I like seein’ that.”

“Yes,” said the smaller woman. She showed him a crooked row of teeth with a missing front tooth. “A long time ago someone helped me. Got me out of a bad situation. That’s why I’m here now, free and independent. I could never thank her enough. She never gave up on me.”

Baskerville bowed, thanked them, and departed the laundry before his disappointment showed.

After inquiring at a few more places, he found a seat outside a surveyor’s office. He pulled off his hat and wiped away the accumulated sweat on his face. He hadn’t seen Incenio for a while. Though he wasn’t too worried, he began to wonder where the boy might’ve gone. Back to the hotel, perhaps? In the worst case scenario he would’ve gone to the mines.

“I’d better go check,” Baskerville mumbled wearily.

The mines and stamp mills were located on the south side of town on the foothills of the mountains. Several roads led to them, men walking up and down the dusty ways as the evening shift ended and the night shift began.  Gold Hill didn’t have a lot of churches, so the men quickly noticed the unusual priest. He tipped his hat out of courtesy. He didn’t see any teenage boys among them.

He headed for the first stamp mill, a wooden building with a slanted metal roof. The incessant clanking of the stamps could be faintly heard in town, but here they were louder. He wondered if the miners could be driven mad by the neverending cacophony. If not, they would grow sick from the chemical processes used separate the gold and silver from the ore.

_I definitely don't want Incenio working there._

It didn’t take him long to find his young friend. He found him sitting against an outbuilding beside the road. The boy wasn’t pouting, but he had his knees drawn up as he watched the passing miners.

“And here I thought it’d take me all night to find you,” said Baskerville as he walked up. “They wouldn’t let you in?”

“I didn’t try.” Incenio fiddled with a small stone on the ground beside him and didn’t look up at the false priest. “The men kept telling me to go home.”

“Of course they did. This is no place for kids. If anything, you should be in school.”

“I never went to school.”

“Neither did I.”

The boy didn’t answer. His attention wandered to the stamp mills.

Baskerville seated himself next to him. “Listen, I understand a lot of what you’re feeling. My sister and I were alone for a long time. By the time I was your age, our parents had been dead for years.”

Incenio glanced up at him with shock. “Really?”

“There weren’t a lot of people out there willing to help us, so I had to take responsibility, and my sister did what she could before she got sick.” Thinking back on it, he was amazed he didn’t join a street gang sooner. Instead, he had steered clear of them after seeing how it would’ve sent him to an early grave. However, he still wound up with the Syndicate in the end. He remembered the slender woman at the laundry and what she had said. Wherever she had come from, someone had helped her and never gave up. What if someone had intervened and changed the course of his life? Would he have refused to join the Syndicate? Would Chisel still be alive?

“Did your sister get better?” asked Incenio.

“No, she passed away a while back.”

“Is that why you’re with these bad people? Because you’re alone?”

“Not quite.” He wasn’t about to spill the details on that. “But I don’t want you to end up alone like I did. That’s why it’s so important for you to stay in Gold Hill and _not_ go back to Edén. All that’ll do is put you in a coffin.”

Incenio still appeared unhappy about it, but he didn’t argue. It took a little time, but he finally said, “I guess.”

Baskerville put a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go back into town. We can always try again tomorrow.”

With some reluctance, Incenio stood with him and walked down the road to Gold Hill as the stars started twinkling to life in the heavens above them.

 

* * *

 

The sky had darkened to black by the time they had to give up their search. Baskerville had resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn’t succeed this day, but tomorrow they would try the ranches outside town. Plus, he was certain there were a few places he had missed that they could’ve tried. He wouldn’t stop until all his options were exhausted.

_But then what? What if we find nothing? Will I just leave him here?_

The question nagged him. He wasn’t certain Incenio would return to Edén, but he could see the boy had enough will to do it. If Incenio didn’t go back, he would be stuck in Gold Hill, broke, homeless, and depending on the charity of others. Though it wasn’t that much different for him in the village, the people there seemed to truly care about him, unlike the strangers here in this boomtown.

“Let’s call it a night,” he said to Incenio.

The boy had a bit of a spring in his step since they’d had that talk, but he’d suddenly stopped and stood a few feet back, staring at a building to his left. They had come up on the Eight Trails Saloon.

“What about this place?” asked Incenio.

Baskerville swatted away the idea. “No! That’s a worse idea than working at the mines.”

“Why? The saloonkeeper is kind. She may let me—”

“Haven’t you been listening this whole time? I don’t want you getting involved with us.”

“But we’ve tried almost every place in town already.”

Baskerville hated the thought, but if he asked Merula—no, _gave_ her strict instructions, then she might keep Incenio out of trouble with the Syndicate. The Syndicate wouldn’t care one way or the other about a kid working in her saloon, but there could a chance she’d try to recruit him. The Boss liked to give out rewards for anyone bringing in new “labor” as it was sometimes called. Since it seemed Merula at least had respect for her former partner, she might honor his wishes. _Might._

“We can see if maybe she’ll have some connections,” he said. “I didn’t want to try the other saloons because I figured they wouldn’t hire kids. I could be wrong.” He could only hope he was wrong.

The saloon was empty, though it was open for business. Merula leaned with her elbows on the bar, looking bored. When the two walked in, she straightened and clapped her hands. The rubies at her neck sparkled in the gas lights.

“Ah, my first customers of the night!” she said. “I haven’t had a single customer all day.”

Baskerville had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “We’re not here to buy drinks.”

The saloonkeeper frowned. “That’s mostly why people come here.” She noted his cassock, opened her mouth to say something, and then shut it. Her lips squeezed to keep from laughing. When she had better control, she said, “Would—W-Would you like a drink?” The last word shook as she suppressed a giggle.

The false priest sidled up to the bar with the boy beside him. He shook his head at her and conveyed a look that she shouldn’t ask about his clothes. “Okay, I’ll have one.”

Pleased with his reply, Merula went to the shelf and poured him the same drink as the night before. When she handed it to him, she said, “I thought you’d be out of town by now. Why the long stay?”

Though no one had been in the saloon upon their arrival, Baskerville still checked the empty hall. He said in a low voice, “Do you know anyone who can take Incenio, give him a job?”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all day? Well, I can’t say I know anyone who would give him a job, other than you-know-who.”

“I don’t want him working for _you-know-who_. Just someone who can give him a regular job, a little money, some food, and a place to sleep.”

Merula puckered her lips. “Aww, you’re just going to leave him here?”

“I can’t take him with me. This job is dangerous and you know it.”

“Hmmm…” The saloonkeeper fiddled with the rubies on her choker. “Jobs around here are scarce. There are more people looking for work than there is actually work.”

“I’ve noticed that.”

“Well, _I_ could use a hand around here.”

Baskerville cringed. “That’s what I was afraid of. But you hardly get any business. You don’t really need that much help.”

“Of course I do. In the basement—”

“No!”

“—there’s some sorting he can do for me. I just got in—”

“Merula—”

“—a new shipment of drinks and I need someone to help me do inventory and clean up a bit.”

“But isn’t the basement where you keep…’supplies’?”

“Oh, yes. Supplies like spare chairs, tables, tools… I have some artwork I’ve been meaning to bring up. An extra hand would make things go a lot faster.”

Baskerville narrowed his eyes at her, but Merula waved away his suspicion.

“I’m serious,” she said. “He won’t handle any of that other stuff. I can give him a hand until he’s able to move on.”

Incenio beamed with joy. “I told you she was a nice person,” he said to the fake priest.

But none of this helped Baskerville’s unease. He thumped a fist on the bar. “You have to swear to me, Merula. Swear you won’t get him involved.”

“Of course I swear,” she said. “You’re a good friend of mine and I wouldn’t betray you.”

He chose to take her word for it. For as long as he’d known her, she had never stabbed him in the back like other Syndicate cronies would’ve. Trust was a commodity usually bought within the organization, and unconditional trust did not typically exist. Baskerville realized then that what had with Merula was special.

He turned to Incenio. “So this is okay with you?”

“Yes!” the boy replied. He nodded with enthusiasm.

“Then let’s go get your things at the hotel.”

Merula lived upstairs in a small apartment, but had a spare room she used for storage that she would clear out for the boy. She would pay him a little each day, as much as she could allow since her business wasn’t exactly flourishing. A subsidy from the Syndicate kept her afloat.

Baskerville could leave knowing the boy was in good hands, but couldn’t banish his apprehension. Merula would come into contact with many shadowy characters from the Syndicate. He warned her one final time to keep Incenio out of all business affairs that didn’t involve the saloon, and she heartily agreed with him. Yet…

As he walked back to the hotel with Incenio, a small voice whispered a warning in a far corner of his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

An unsettling dream repeated itself throughout the following night. Baskerville kept seeing Edén enveloped in water, as if the village were beneath a lake, like the one that had filled the valley eons ago. He stood at the collapsed gates, watching fish swim among the empty houses. The sound of water muffled his hearing, and his clothes swayed with the motion of the currents. He could breathe, but each breath brought frigid water into his lungs to chill his core. Helplessness and guilt overwhelmed him, weighing him down like an anchor.

A figure appeared through the darkened doorway of the church. Baskerville strained to see, but the person resembled a solid black mass. His hair floated in front of his face to block the view until another current pushed it back. The figure had come to stand at the bottom of the steps. A big fish passed before Baskerville, and the figure stood in the plaza.

Who are you? he wanted to ask, but found he had no voice. Bubbles issued from his mouth to drift toward the sunlit surface of the lake.

He awoke to daylight pouring in from between the curtains of his hotel room. He sat up in bed, feeling quite dry, and the air warm in his lungs. The clock on the wall read half past nine, and, without a second thought about the dream, he flung off the sheets. He swept up his cassock, pulled it on, and hurried out the room.

The stagecoach office in town was deserted. When Baskerville burst through the doors, the stage clerk sitting behind the counter almost spilled his coffee in surprise.

“When’s the next stage?” Baskerville asked.

It took a moment for the clerk to collect himself. He stood from his chair and looked at a slate board on the wall behind him. “At twelve o’clock.”

“Did one already come by this morning?”

“Yes. You just missed it.”

Baskerville swore under his breath. Why he let himself sleep in so late? He could’ve been out of town by now.

“Are you interested in buying a ticket?” the clerk asked.

The fake priest bought one promptly and went back to the hotel to prepare and pay his bill.

As he placed his belongings in the saddle bags, he pulled out the Bible from one of them. He flipped through the pages to the Eto Gun manual.

This is my mission. Not the village. Not Incenio. I have to find this gun no matter what.

Of course, he had no leads from here. His stage ticket would take him to a town called Ernfield about a hundred miles north. He would have to consider his options once he got there. He had heard Ernfield was larger than Gold Hill, so it might offer a greater chance for new leads, but after Edén he realized he was growing weary of wild goose chases. The village hadn’t been his first empty lead, but the disappointment stung and added to his embittered view of the future. For the first times since he embarked on this westward journey, he started to doubt his chances of finding the gun.

He touched the drawing of the Eto Gun in the manual. I can’t let any of my efforts go to waste. I can’t let all that I’ve fought for…all the damage I’ve caused…

The memory of the dream pierced his thoughts like an arrow. The shadowy figure had stood before him, cold, silent, and exuding judgment. Gooseflesh rippled over Baskerville’s arms. It was only a dream. The figure could’ve been symbolic and represented anything. Maybe it was his conscience trying to tell him something, but never did he think it would manifest itself like that.

Baskerville flipped a page in the manual, trying to focus on what little information was provided, but his mind lingered on Edén. Sister Augustina’s dream was about a flood. In my dream, the village was already underwater. Does that mean she’ll fail? He shook his head. He didn’t believe dreams had meaning. Chisel used to, and she believed certain people could have the “gift of prophesy.” She would write down her dreams in a journal and talk to him about what they might mean. He would listen patiently and respectfully, but many times he wished he’d removed all the religious paraphernalia from the house when she was younger. Religion was a carry-over from their parents, and Chisel had clung to it as though by forgetting it she would forget her own mother and father. It should’ve burned with the rest of their family.

He closed the Bible. “As long I’m waiting for the stagecoach,” he mumbled, “I might as well go see how Incenio’s doing on his first day on the job.” He redressed in plain clothes again.

The saloon was empty as expected. Merula was busy washing something in the sink when he walked in. She brightened at first, and then her face fell when she realized it was him. She dried her hands with a towel and put it over her shoulder.

“You keep getting my hopes up,” she said. “Quit it.”

“Don’t worry,” Baskerville replied. “I’m leaving in a few hours. Where’s Incenio?”

The boy came through a door in the back of the hall, carrying a painting almost too large for his arms to hold. The picture showed a nude woman surrounded by spider webs. Though the artistry was superb, the image itself made Baskerville frown.

“You can’t put out something a little less…creepy?” he asked.

“Funny, that’s what Wilburn said,” Merula replied.

“W-Wilburn? The Wilburn? From the—”

“Yes, that one. He came to audit me because…you know.” Merula chuckled sheepishly. “He said I should put out more ‘cheery decorations,’ as he put it.”

“And you didn’t listen to a word he said. I have a feeling he’ll be paying you another visit soon.”

“Maybe.” She seemed not at all bothered by this prospect. She directed Incenio to leave the painting behind the front counter so she could mount it on the wall later. Then she had him return to the basement for more.

The saloonkeeper took a wet glass from the sink and started drying it with the towel. “Tell me, where’d you get that kid, anyway? Is he the reason you came in last night dressed like a priest?”

“I use it as a disguise,” he explained. “I met Incenio at a village.”

Merula set aside the dry glass took up another wet one. She was quiet for a stretch, then said, “Interesting. That village wouldn’t happen to be called Edén, would it?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a guess. But there are rumors going around about some trouble west of here in a place called Edén.” She looked at him curiously. “Did that boy run away with you?”

“He left on his own and caught up with me.”

“Must be pretty bad what’s going on there.”

Incenio reemerged from the basement with three small paintings stacked in his arms, complaining about how hard it was to find them “in that mess down there.” Merula had him place them beside the large one. She handed him a damp towel and asked that he wipe off the tables.

She whispered to Baskerville, “He was happy enough last night, but today he’s a little more…subdued.”

“He’s thinking about his village,” Baskerville said, which in turn made him remember the dream. “Uh, could I have a drink?”

The saloonkeeper delivered a new drink this time, something strong and satisfying. Baskerville let the contents warm him as he watched Incenio.

“What happened there exactly?” Merula asked.

Baskerville didn’t want it known that he’d had a confrontation with Blush, but he was more worried that the villagers had found out he was a fake priest. On top that, he had mentioned the Eto Gun to them, something the Syndicate didn’t want anyone else knowing about. The Boss wouldn’t let that slide as easily as his spat with Blush.

But Merula didn’t have to know all the details.

He took another sip of his drink. “It’s Blush.”

The saloonkeeper’s expression instantly darkened. “What’s that bastard doing now?”

“He thinks Edén has one of the guns.”

“Then you were there for the same thing. Did they have it?”

“No.”

“So what happened to the village?”

“I don’t know. We left before Blush had his way with it.”

Merula crossed her arms, the towel hanging from her hand. “So you just let him take it?”

“What else did I need to do?” He pulled back as a small spider skittered across the bar in front of him. When it disappeared over the far end, he checked to make sure no more were coming. Usually Merula kept her pets out of sight, but some tended to make their own decisions. He shuddered.

His associate pursed her red lips. She took a deep breath. “You could’ve tried to stop him.”

“I did try. He wouldn’t listen.”

Merula slapped the towel on the bar. It made such a sound that Incenio stopped his work and stared at them.

“You tried and then gave up because he wouldn’t listen?” she said, her words like the razor edge of a knife. “That doesn’t sound like the Razy I know. You’ve never put up with him and his asinine nonsense. Why would you, of all people, run away from the likes of him?”

Baskerville winced as her voice carried through the saloon. Incenio stepped closer.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “He had an army with him. He tried to kill me! Then he attacked the village and burned its fields.”

“And what’s an army to you?” Merula retorted. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

“Why does any of this matter to you?”

The saloonkeeper reddened, and she lifted a finger to point at Incenio. He stood in confusion with the towel twisted in his fingers. The windows admitted golden sunlight to catch in his mussed, blue-black hair and accentuate the dark hollows of his eyes, which appeared deeper than usual, betraying his intensifying sorrow.

“Long ago, I had a home,” said Merula. “The town was small, but I knew every single person there. They were like family to me. I had hoped to get married someday and raise my own family in that very same place. Then there was war and the enemy came. We asked for help from the army, but they refused, saying they were too busy helping a bigger town.” Here Merula had to stop. She took several breaths as if trying to regain control of her mounting rage. “So the enemy burned mine down! I only remember running. Around my neck was my mother’s locket. When I went back to see who survived, there was no one. I found my parents’ bodies in the ashes of my house. My little brother had tried to run, but he was shot out back by the barn.”

Baskerville swallowed. She had never shared her past with him. Most everyone in the Syndicate kept their histories to themselves, but he had always suspected everyone’s story was as tragic as his own.

The saloonkeeper locked a glare on him that wilted him on his feet. “I gave that locket to the Syndicate. It was the most precious thing I had. After that, I thought I lost who I was.” She bent toward him and tapped a pointed finger on the bar, her long fingernail clicking on the polished wood. “No one came to help us. If the army had come, my home might still be here, my family would be alive, and I would not be in these chains!”

She picked up the towel, slung it over her shoulder, went back to the sink, and cleaned a few more glasses while Baskerville gaped alone at the bar. Incenio stood silently at first, and then shuffled back to the basement.

Baskerville tried to find the words to respond, but Merula went into a back room and didn’t come out again. He waited a few more minutes before stepping out the front doors and back to the hotel where he would wait in the lobby until the stagecoach arrived.

 

* * *

 

It took a while for Merula to compose herself, and by the time she returned to the bar, Razy was gone. Incenio had disappeared, likely to the basement to dig around in the piles of junk. She felt guilty for her outburst, but the memories had been too much to bear. She used to be able to block out the images and keep them from flaring up. Since she opened this saloon, however, and worked alone for long periods, she was often left to her thoughts. That was why she was glad to have Incenio come on. At least there would be someone to keep her distracted.

Merula resumed drying the wet dishes. A few minutes later, Incenio came up from the basement with another small painting in hand. He glanced about, and she knew he was looking for Razy.

“Guess he couldn’t stand the heat,” she quipped, but her sarcasm was weak. Part of her regretted chasing him off like that. It had been so long since they’d last seen each other. The last time they had parted was on good terms to break off their relationship, but she always did like him. Something about him made her believe there was more good in him than the typical Syndicate goon. But the goodness had been overlaid with a rigid barrier. She had expended a lot of effort trying to find the cracks in that fortress, and it delighted her to find that there were a few.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Incenio asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

Merula shrugged with indifference. “Probably not.” She dried the last glass and said, “Can you take this tub out back and dump it for me?”

Incenio took the tub and was out the back door.

The saloonkeeper was grateful for his help, though she hadn’t needed to hire anyone. She simply felt sorry for the boy and wanted to give him a hand up. Razy had done what he could, and he was right about keeping Incenio out of the Syndicate.

A crate of bottles sat on the floor behind the bar and she went to open it. She grabbed a few and started placing them along a shelf that had begun to go empty. It normally took several weeks for something like that to happen in her saloon, whereas in others it could take a single night. She chuckled to herself. Wilburn may very well pay her another visit. Maybe he would assign her to another task and get her out of this town.

The front door creaked on its hinges. Merula expected Razy again, but her heart shriveled when she saw a tall, muscular man with wild, platinum blond hair so pale it was almost white. He pulled off his shaded glasses and wide-brimmed military hat, and grinned like a shark that had just found a fat, tasty fish to devour.

Merula froze in the middle of shelving a bottle. Her whole body stiffened.

“Well, well,” said the visitor. “Are you going to serve me or are you going to stare at me like a dolt?”

“Blush,” Merula whispered. Her lips trembled at the name. A few more seconds and she regathered her senses. She took a gulp of air and forced the best smile she could muster. She was always good at faking a smile.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, as if his very presence sucked the warmth from it. With cold, quivering fingers, Merula went for one of the bottles on the shelf and poured him a glass, but when she turned to give it to him she was surprised to find him at a table instead of the bar, his back against the wall. With him there, leaving the bar was akin to leaving a fortified castle. Her gaze flicked to the front door and she calculated how long it would take for her to get to it. She’d never make it before he drew his guns.

She handed him the drink, careful to avoid touching the hands sheathed in riding gauntlets.

“You look well, Merula,” he said. He took a sip of the liquor and said nothing of his opinion on it. “Still got your little pets?” He saw them on the ceiling. A tarantula sat perched on the chandelier, and another smaller spider sat nearby to observe. All the others were hidden away.

“Disgusting bugs,” Blush spat, and he took another sip of his drink.

“Wh-Why are you h-here?” Merula asked, hating herself for stammering.

“Why, I just came for a little visit and get myself a drink from the best brewer in the Syndicate. What good luck you’d be out here.”

“How did you know?”

“I came through town a few weeks ago and saw you, but you didn’t see me. I didn’t have time to stop by then, but here I am.”

“I see.”

“You got something I need.”

“Do I?”

Blush was all yellow teeth. Merula noted a few on the bottom row were crooked. “My men are out of ammo,” he said.

She wanted to say she was clean out of ammunition, but it would be folly to lie to him. He would know.

“There aren’t any military arsenals close by that I can use,” Blush explained. “I got a bead on a village that has the Zodiac Gun, but they’ve been resisting like a cat resists a bath. Stubborn bunch of dirty farmers. Apparently they would rather die than give it up.”

“Are you sure it’s the gun?”

“It has to be. Otherwise they would’ve given up by now. They’re protecting it because they know what it’s worth, how powerful it is.”

“If it’s so powerful then how come they haven’t used it?”

“They want me to think they’re protecting something else, some kind of ‘holy relic’ or some such hogwash. Rumors say that whatever it is, the people are so scared of it that they worship it, like God himself came down and gave it to them. I ain’t heard of anything else like that in this country. Sounds exactly like what the Boss wants.”

“Maybe.”

Blush downed the rest of the drink and grimaced. “You used to make better stuff than this.”

“It’s not mine. I ordered it from somewhere else. I don’t do much brewing here. I don’t have the right equipment.”

“That’s a shame. I used to like watching you do it.”

Merula suppressed a shiver. She hated him for more than just the fact that he was mindlessly violent and cruel to the very core of his soul. He would harass her and grope her and try to get her to sleep with him. She resisted him like, as he said, a cat resists a bath. He had stopped short of forcing himself on her, for he must’ve held more respect for the Boss than his own impure inclinations. The Boss had an unusual rule against such things that set him apart from most other crime lords, and their mysterious master claimed he would carry out the punishment himself.

While the Boss possessed some level of decency, Blush was the very definition of pollution. When he left she would have to scrub clean the chair he sat in. Later she’d have to bathe because even the air was saturated with his evil.

“I brought a wagon for the ammo,” Blush said. “I’ll need it today and head out tonight. My guess is the village won’t last a few more days. I’ll let ‘em run around in a panic for a bit before the big finale.”

It was as if he planned to do something as casual as painting his house. Merula wanted to break a bottle over his head. She couldn’t keep herself from glowering at him. “Those supplies are for individuals, not armies. You’ll clean me out, and my next shipment isn’t due for another two months!”

Blush shrugged. “Not my problem. You’re out here to supply other members, and that’s what I’m here to get.”

“I just told you—”

The general’s hand shot out and grabbed her webbed choker. One of the rubies fell off and clattered to the floor. He pulled her down so she’d look him in the eyes. “You’ll do as I say. If you don’t, I’ll do what I want with you, and the Boss won’t know a thing about it.” A knife flashed in his other hand. “Because you won’t have a tongue to help you tell anyone.”

Sweat dribbled down Merula’s temple. She nodded.

When Blush released her, she straightened her choker and picked up the fallen ruby. Some of the beads from her necklace had fallen with it.

“I-It’ll take a while f-for me to load it all,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

Blush leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the clean table where dirt flaked off his boots. “I got time.”

As the saloonkeeper went for the basement door, she noticed it was ajar. She had strictly told Incenio to always keep the door closed. Incenio…? That’s right. I sent him to dump the water. It shouldn’t have taken him this long.

That was because he was hiding on the other side of the door. She stepped through, closed it quickly, and clamped a hand over his mouth. The candle in the holder he had been using sat on one of the steps.

“You need to stay quiet,” she said. “He’s a dangerous man and he’ll kill you if he sees you here. There’s a door in the basement. It’s a secret exit. Take it and get out of here. Don’t came back until late tonight.” She removed her hand from his mouth.

“That man,” said Incenio, “he’s the one who… H-He and his cavalry are attacking my village.”

“I know.”

“Then we should do something!”

“I can’t.”

“But why? He’s right in front of us! All we have to do is—”

“Shh!” She pressed her hand over his mouth again and considered the fear that reflected in the boy’s eyes, so much like her own when she was his age, when her town was torched and her family annihilated. No, I shouldn’t do this. Besides, I don’t have what it takes to beat him. But then she remembered her spiders. There were more than enough of them, but…  If I kill him, the Syndicate will know about it. If I fail, he’ll—

There was no denying the risk. She recalled the smoke plume that had risen from her ravaged town to fill the sky like a black, hulking giant from Hell. There was nothing she could’ve done on her own to save it at that point. But, had she been able to do something to change the course of events…

I’m such a fool.

“Let me handle him,” she said. “Just go out the basement door. I want you to be safe.”

“But—”

“Just go! I can’t let anything happen to you. I did make a promise to Razy.”

Incenio scowled at her briefly, but the look melted away in defeat. He turned and went down the stairs.

When she heard the door in basement open and close, she descended the steps.

 

* * *

 

Merula had so far hauled up six small crates of bullets. She loaded them onto the wagon Blush had parked outside. It bothered her that he had demanded she do this in broad daylight where every person in town could see, but no one would know the crates contained bullets and guns. All the weapons were hidden in boxes or sacks or some kind of covering to conceal them. Still, she knew her superiors in the Syndicate would not be happy about the movement of supplies during the day. Several passersby gave her suspicious stares.

This is a saloon, not a store. Of course they think this is suspicious. She would have to come up with a plausible story later should someone come sticking their nose into her business.

Blush sat and watched. He ordered her to give him a few more drinks, better ones, and then requested a pencil and paper. He scribbled some lines and words but didn’t tell her what he was doing. The general never lifted a finger to help her.

She fought with herself. If I kill Blush, the Syndicate will find out. And when they do… Oh, God. I’ll have to find someplace to run. But where could she possibly go to escape them? They were everywhere. There was no way she could slip away undetected. Or could she?

“Why does any of this matter to you?” Razy had asked.

I’m not really sure why. Maybe I don’t want Incenio to end up like me. Maybe I want him to go back to a family.

But at the risk of her own life? She understood Razy’s reluctance to do the same, but she felt she didn’t have much to lose except her life. The Syndicate had taken what was left of her home and identity when they demanded her locket.

They take everything from us until the only thing left is our lives. They demand our obedience and threaten to kill us if we break the rules or try to run away. Our only hope for a future—survival—is with the organization.

The Syndicate dangled carrots of money and prestige. Finding the guns would guarantee both. Merula was interested in neither.

But Razy acts like he has something to lose. What is it?

She brought up some rifles wrapped in canvas. At this rate it would take her a few hours to load the wagon, and she was already becoming exhausted with each heavy box she had to lug up the stairs. With help she could move faster, but Blush clearly had no intention of doing so.

“Our superiors won’t be happy when they find out you’ve taken so much supplies,” Merula said to the general.

He snorted. “They won’t care when I bring them the gun.”

“Then you’d better hope it’s the gun,” she whispered. She looked at the ceiling. Her two spiders had shifted to the edge of a large circular design in the ceiling where the chandelier hung.

Blush had finished his drawing and was busy picking at his earwax with his little finger. She knew he watched her every move. He wore his guns, which could be in his hands in half a second should he suspect she was up to something. It was why she couldn’t just load a gun in the basement and shoot him. With his back against the wall she couldn’t maneuver herself behind him to shoot him in the back.

And leaving through the escape door is out of the question. If I don’t give him the supplies…I don’t know what he’ll do. He might report me back to the base and they’ll punish me, and tell them lies to make me look worse.

She continued to bring up boxes and sacks. The wagon was large and about half full after an hour of loading. Merula figured by the time she was done, the basement would be empty save for supplies used in the saloon.

She was dragging a long rectangular box across the floor to take outside when Blush said, “Oh, I forgot. I’ll need some food.”

Merula dropped the box. “Are you kidding me? I can’t feed an army!”

Blush made a sweeping gesture at the empty tables. “Who else are you gonna feed around here? You should have plenty of food. All you’re doing is letting it go to waste.”

Her face burned with indignation. She pointed at the bottles along the shelves. “Do you want all that, too?” She opened her arms wide. “Why don’t you just lift up my whole saloon and take it with you?”

The general shrugged. “I would if I could, but I don’t have the means.” He checked his pocket watch. “Pick up the pace, will ya?”

Merula ground her teeth. The people outside were starting to murmur amongst themselves. One person had stopped to ask if she had gone out of business and was moving out of the building. She told him she was “getting rid of some old things” and having them shipped to a buyer. This satisfied the man and he went on his way. Later she was forced to put up a “closed” sign when another man almost walked in.

She looked at the spiders on the ceiling again. Two more had joined them.

“Would you like another drink?” she asked Blush.

He appeared surprised that she had willingly offered. “One more,” he said.

She went behind the counter and stopped in her tracks. Incenio crouched on the other side of the counter with the revolver in his hand. He lifted a finger to his lips to signal quiet. Merula’s heart hammered hard in her chest. How in the black bowels of Hell had he managed to get behind there without being seen?

“The green one,” Blush said. She jumped at his voice. “That one looks interesting. Is it yours?”

“Y-Yes,” she said. It was the same drink she had served Razy.

She poured the liquor. It took a lot of will for her not to scowl at the boy at her feet. Why hadn’t he left like she told him to?

Merula purposely overfilled the glass and the liquid spilled out on the bar. “Oops.” Bending behind the counter to retrieve a fresh towel, she mouthed to the Incenio, “Stay down.”

She came up and put the towel on the spill, and as she wiped with one hand, her other hand dropped and felt for a switch. She flipped it.

Wooden slabs dropped over the windows and doors to shut out the day. The gas lights flared to life, throwing a yellow sheen over the room. The walls glittered and glass gleamed. Blush sat bolt upright in his seat and cast about wildly.

“What are you up to?” he demanded.

“I forgot,” Merula replied coolly. “I need to feed my spiders.”

A clanking sound echoed overhead, and the circle in the ceiling opened, pulling the chandelier up. Countless spiders of all shapes and sizes and colors poured out across the ceiling in a wave, spreading in all directions and flooding down the walls.

Blush stood transfixed, but as the spiders came near, he broke away and bolted for the bar. He lunged for Merula. Before the saloonkeeper could react, he grabbed her around the neck with one hand. He shoved her onto the bar where he flipped her onto her back, pinning her in an iron grip against her throat. She struggled, choked, and clawed at his unyielding hold. Blush allowed her some air as he went to straddle her.

“Call them off,” he said. Some were beginning to drop from the ceiling. He swatted one off his shoulder. “I said call them off!”

Merula mustered a raspy “No,” which was followed by a hard slap across her cheek.

The general pulled out one his guns and pointed it at her face. “Do it or you’re dead!”

She had to think about that for a few seconds. Did it matter whether she lived or died? The edges of her lips twitched but she forced back a smile. She sighed. The spiders slowed their advancement and stopped a few feet from the bar.

“That’s more like it,” said Blush. He threw his gaze over the spider-covered saloon and up over the ceiling. They’d stopped falling and awaited the next command. “I figured you’d try something on me, but you actually wanted to kill me!” He shoved the barrel of the gun between Merula’s eyes. “I should kill you here and now!”

Incenio jumped up from behind the counter with his revolver aimed at Blush. “Stop! Let her go, or I’ll shoot.”

The general gaped at the boy but his own gun never left Merula. “Where in the hell did you come from?”

Though the revolver shook in his hand, Incenio kept a hold on his target. “I will kill you if you hurt her again. And I will pay you back for what you’ve done to Edén!”

“Edén?” Blush paused. “Wait, are you—”

A knee to his crotch cut off his words. He doubled over but recovered quickly enough to grab Merula before she scrambled away. He shoved her over the bar. He shot at the mirror and the bottles lining the wall, the glass exploding and tumbling to the floor. Alcohol splattered everywhere. Then he planted six bullets into the ceiling at the spiders. The creatures scattered, many of them returning to the hole. Others scurried about while bits of the dead sprinkled to the floor.

Blush loaded his two guns with new cartridges. “You’ve made a fatal mistake today.” He jerked a gun at the boy. “And you. Drop it.”

Incenio refused, but Merula slowly lifted a hand to push the boy’s arm down. “Put it down,” she said.

He resisted her. “But now he’ll kill us.”

“He’s faster than you. Just give it up.”

Tears brimmed in Incenio’s eyes but he wouldn’t let go of his weapon.

“You’re right, Blush,” the saloonkeeper said evenly. She put up her hands. “I made a mistake. It was a fair fight. I’ll load the rest of the supplies for you.”

The general bared his teeth at her. “You think I’m just gonna let this go?” He growled. “I can’t trust anyone around here!”

“I’ll still lo—”

“Shut up! I’ll come back later and have my men burn this place to the ground.”

Merula could never quite understand his way of thinking. Burning down the saloon and all the supplies would infuriate the Boss. Blush would surely be reprimanded. When he was angry, he tended to lose his common sense.

“If you do that—” she started to say, but stopped short when Blush shot at the wall behind her. More bottles exploded, some of which were her best mixes. She couldn’t steady her shaking knees now. Incenio still held the gun. If he didn’t put it down…

“You’re an evil man,” the boy said. “You will go to Hell for all you’ve done.”

The general’s thick lips pulled back into a rictus that could’ve frozen the spilled liquor on the floor. “But I’m sure a kid like you will go to heaven.”

Merula thrust out her hands to stop him. The report from the gun deafened her momentarily and she clapped her hands to her ears. She stumbled sideways to the floor. Heart racing, she covered her head with her arms and looked in horror at the warm blood that had sprayed her clothes. The boy slumped against the wall, his whole front soaked in crimson.

Blush leaned over the bar. A trail of smoke drifted from the barrel of his right gun.

“You shouldn’t have said that, kid. That village has pissed me off enough, and one of its brats ain’t gonna backtalk me. They’re costing me money and resources. Well, they’re living on borrowed time, just like you were.”

Merula sucked in ragged breaths. Incenio sat in a red pool as blood poured from his wounds. Panic welled in her breast to fill her with cold terror. A memory flickered across her numb mind of her little brother lying face-down by the barn, a hole in his back. The shot hadn’t killed him immediately. He had dragged himself a short distance before collapsing, leaving a red trail in the dust.

“N-No… No.” Merula crawled over the wet, broken glass and pushed back Incenio’s head. She pulled him close and held him. The gun in his hand had fallen from his grip.

“Hey!”

A bottle smashed on the floorboards beside her.

“Listen to me when I’m talkin’ to you,” Blush said. He slapped a hand on the bar. “I’m takin’ off as I can’t wait any longer for you to fiddle-fart around gettin’ that wagon loaded. When you’re done, take the wagon to the location on this map. If you don’t come, I’ll have my men burn this place down. Then I’ll report what you tried to do to me. But do as I say and I’ll sweep what happened today under the rug.” A piece of paper drifted down to the floor behind the bar. “I’ll let myself out the back door.”

Merula barely heard him. Her thoughts became trapped in the past. She’d found a shovel in the burned out barn and had started to dig. At the time she was not aware of the blisters that had formed on her hands from the effort, nor did she feel anything when she dragged her little brother into the hole. Her parents’ charred bodies were light as she hauled them across the yard to their graves. She hadn’t been able to give them headstones. There was nothing proper left to use. There was nothing left…

Tears streamed down her face.

 


	9. Chapter 9

After Baskerville had finished gathering his few belongings, he went to the general store to pick up a bit of food to bring with him to Ernfield. He then returned to the hotel, and as was his habit, he went back to his room to check if he had missed anything.

During his inspection he noticed something on the floor near the bed where Incenio had slept. He knelt and retrieved a necklace with a small medal. The medal had the portrait of a man, but there was no inscription. Baskerville assumed the man was a saint by the looks of the halo around his head, but since Baskerville knew nothing of saints he didn’t know which one it was.

“Was this Incenio’s?” He turned the medal over in his hand but couldn’t be sure. He didn’t recall the boy wearing a necklace, but then it could’ve been hidden under Incenio’s shirt.

He didn’t want to go back to the saloon, not after the way Merula had spoken to him. He felt she had tried to shame him about leaving Edén to Blush. But she hadn’t considered the impossible odds, and that the villagers knew who he was. He wasn’t able to explain everything. Pitiful though her story was, it wasn’t enough to convince him to risk his life opposing another member of the Syndicate.

He sighed and thumbed the medallion. _She relates to Incenio the same way I do. Even though she doesn_ _’t know his story, she felt she knew it already. That’s why she gave him a job._

The various odd jobs he had done growing up were countless. He did anything he could to put food on the table, and a roof overhead if he could afford it. No one gave him a job out of the sheer kindness of their hearts. He and Chisel had narrowly avoided an orphanage, where abuse was rampant and he feared he would become separated from his sister should one of them be adopted. He’d had to shield her from the worst horrors of poverty and make sure she would not be snatched in the dark streets to serve as a soiled dove. Knives became his best defense. After developing enough expertise, no one dared bother them.

 _Incenio won_ _’t have to go through any of that, assuming Merula can keep her promise. I can still go back and get him. Ernfield might offer more for him._

No. He had to leave while the going was good, for both himself and the boy. He may regret changing his mind, and Ernfield had no guarantees.

“I’ll have to return this medal, though,” he said. “I know I’ll regret _that_ if I don’t.”

When he stepped out of the hotel he found the business district of Gold Hill in full swing. The air was dusty with wagon traffic, and people darted to and fro in the street and on the boardwalk. Baskerville had to watch where he was going lest he run into someone. Children shrieked in play, and yipping dogs tagged along. A little girl’s goat had gotten loose and skipped away to a water trough on the other side of the road. A small wagon carrying a few crates of frenzied chickens trundled by. Women conversed in groups. Men went quietly about their duties.

As he drew close to the Eight Trails Saloon, however, he noticed a knot of people forming at its doors. Others ran to join them. A large wagon, half filled with boxes and sacks, sat parked outside with two horses hitched in front. Voices rose and the crowd parted when a man with a star on his shirt came through with several men behind him. This was the sheriff and his deputies by then looks of them.

Baskerville’s heart lurched. He hurried to the crowd and pushed his way to the front. The doors and windows of the saloon were boarded shut from the inside.

The sheriff turned to the overly curious onlookers with annoyance. “This is a crime scene,” he declared. “Everyone stay back. There might still be a fight inside.”

Baskerville’s heart gave another kick. He came forward. “Sir, what happened here?”

The sheriff ignored him and turned to the building. He opened the the front door and tried to pry the wood away, while his deputies worked at figuring out the windows.

“I heard shots,” an old woman whispered to Baskerville from beside him. “Must be a brawl of some sort.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said a man next to her. “This saloon hardly gets any business. Who would be starting fights in here?”

“I thought it was closed for the day?” said another.

A gunshot erupted from the saloon and the crowd fell back. The sheriff and his men drew their weapons and demanded that the perpetrators show themselves. More spectators gathered.

Baskerville glanced at the second story of the building. No boards covered the windows there. He was about to point this out when he saw a small spider squeeze out from under a window sill and vanish around the side of the building. Another appeared from the roof and followed its compatriot.

Baskerville split from the mass of people and went around the back of the building. No one else had thought to do the same because no one was there when he got to the back door. He noted the numerous hoof prints in the dirt. Why would someone have a horse back here? Curious though he was, Baskerville didn’t have time to think about it. With the door unlocked, it was easy to slip into the kitchen. The room held the warm aroma of cooked meat and spices. The tidy shelves displayed jars and cans while cookware hung on the walls.

He stopped to listen. There were no voices, but surely there had to be people in the saloon. Who fired the shots?

Cautiously, he stepped through a door that led to the main hall. Gas lights lit the silent room. Spiders scurried across the floor and up the walls. Baskerville’s gaze followed them to a hole in the ceiling where they collected and disappeared. Smaller holes punctured the ceiling in a circular pattern. He stared in awe at the sheer number of spiders, never realizing Merula had had so many.

The mirror behind the bar was completely destroyed, and few bottles remained on the shelves. The walls dripped with alcohol, the sheen apparent in the gas lights.

The men outside pounded and at the wooden slab against the door. The windows would have to be broken to access the slabs over them.

“Merula?” Baskerville called softly. “Where are you?”

A whimper sounded nearby. He went to the bar, leaned over the edge, and rushed around to find Merula holding a blood-soaked Incenio. She rocked back and forth, staring out with unseeing eyes. Her choker was broken and curls had sprung loose from her hair. Bruises marked her neck and right cheek.

“Merula!” Baskerville knelt, heedless of the glass crunching under his knee, and brought her chin up. Her lips quavered and her eyes went wide when she saw him.

“He-He came. He—” She looked down at Incenio. When Baskerville tried to pull the boy away, she tightened her grip.

He’d never seen her like this and it disturbed him. “Let me see him,” he said.

The saloonkeeper finally relented. Baskerville took the boy in his arms, turned him over, and felt for a pulse. It was a weak.

“We’ll get a doctor,” he said. “Merula, how do I open the doors?”

She said nothing. She brought up her hands to stare at the blood, her mind falling back into some unknown place.

“Merula!” Baskerville grabbed up a cloth from under the bar and pressed it to Incenio’s wounds, but there were too many. The blood poured out. He grabbed another towel, and another. Soon the boy’s whole front was covered with old bar towels. Red stained Baskerville’s trousers and shirt.

The men outside still struggled at the doors. The sheriff called for someone to bring him a sharp ax.

Incenio groaned and opened his eyes. “Is…he…gone?”

Baskerville smoothed a hand over the boy’s black hair. Though he didn’t know who this “he” was, he said, “Yes. He’s gone.”

The boy’s head rolled to the side, and it seemed he would lose consciousness, but he refocused and said, “Is…Merula…?”

“She’s safe.”

He considered the boy’s condition again. The prognosis was grim. He was losing too much blood, and had lost so much already. Merula remained unaware as she leaned her head against the wall, her eyes upturned and her lips moving silently. Her bloody hands had fallen to the floor.

“Merula, you have to tell me how to open the doors!” Baskerville’s mind raced. He went to stand when small fingers took hold of his sleeve.

The ghost of a smile moved over Incenio’s ashen face. “You…came back.”

“I did.” He paused. “I came to bring you this.” He brought out the medal from a pocket in his jacket.

Incenio squinted. He coughed and more blood spurted from between his lips. His mouth worked to form the words. “Padre…Michael…”

“Hang in there, Incenio! We’ll get the sheriff in here and send for a doctor. You can make it.”

The last word hadn’t left his tongue when Incenio sighed and his body went limp. The light in his eyes faded.

The monstrous hand of despair took hold of Baskerville’s soul and crushed it. He shook the boy. “Incenio? Incenio!”

But the orphan child of Edén was dead.

 

* * *

 

A single lamp burned on a table nearby, illuminating the small, quiet room. The light but tangy odor of formaldehyde infused the air.

Baskerville placed a hand on the lid of the coffin, which had already been sealed. He had requested a white coffin, simple and elegant, but without the glass window that allowed a view of the deceased.

A kind woman who had heard the story donated her young son’s suit for the body. Someone offered to pay for the embalming, funeral, and burial. Others sent flowers and vowed to attend the ceremony. But he paid the undertaker for the coffin and embalming out of his own pocket. It was, after all, his fault what happened to Incenio, wasn’t it? The citizens, the sheriff, and Merula would beg to differ. But, no, it was most certainly his fault.

_I let him come with me to Gold Hill. I let Merula take him in. All along I knew something like this might happen if I left him._

He’d been too eager to get rid of Incenio just so he could get back to his mission. He hadn’t needed to leave him with Merula. The boy’s chances would’ve been better in Ernfield. He had _known_ that. But he had ignored all his internal warnings. He could only think of what he could’ve done better, what he could’ve done so this would not have happened. Just like he did with Chisel.

 _It_ _’s my fault. It’s always been my fault._

He had looked at a coffin just like this. It had been smaller, but white like this one. No matter how much he blamed the Syndicate for killing his sister, no matter how hard he convinced himself there was nothing he could’ve done to save her, and that there was no way he could’ve known the drugs were killing her, in the end the blame rested on him. He still fed her the narcotics. She still died.

_And here I am burying another, when this time I had the chance to do something different. This time I knew the danger, and yet..._

Incenio’s words haunted him. _“I can choose to do good now. Everyone can.”_

But how? What good he could do for a corpse? What more could Baskerville do for a boy whose life was so tragically cut short and would never wake up again, never again feel the warmth of the sun? A boy who would never grow up and find love. A boy who would never hold his sons in his arms, or bounce his daughters on his knee. Grow old with his family and community. Experience all the joys of life. There was nothing Baskerville could do short of raising Incenio from the dead.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. The last time he had allowed himself to cry was when he had buried Chisel. He never shed another tear after that, yet he felt them welling up and ready to spill over.

 _Maybe it wasn_ _’t just because he reminded me of myself. Maybe I wanted another chance to protect something, and do it right this time. But I still..._

It was useless to keep ruminating about it. It would not change a thing. Punishing himself would not bring him closer to a solution, if one existed.

Baskerville left the room. The undertaker and Merula waited for him in the front lobby. Merula was dressed in black as usual, but over the last few days she wore a black mourning veil. It did well to conceal the bruises on her neck and face.

“About the funeral,” the undertaker said, “I’m assuming tomorrow would be a good day?”

“No,” said Baskerville. “I won’t be burying him here.”

“What? But—”

“I’d like to take him home to his village.”

Merula gasped softly.

Because Incenio had no next of kin, Baskerville had taken all responsibility, and thus he felt he had the right to choose where the boy should be interred.

“But that place—I heard there was some kind of terrible fight happening there,” said the undertaker.

“There is. But I’m sure we would be allowed time to bury him. His family is buried there, after all.”

The other man didn’t look convinced, but said, “If you say so…”

“Give everyone my thanks for helping us. I’ll be by tomorrow morning to pick up the coffin.”

He ignored the undertaker’s appeals to reconsider.

As Baskerville left the building, Merula followed after him. She hadn’t opened her saloon since the incident and hadn’t cleaned up the mess inside. Though she had recovered from the emotional shock of Incenio’s sudden death, she wouldn’t stop apologizing for what had happened, as if somehow she was responsible. But he never agreed, especially after the story she told him. Most of the details went in one ear and out the other, save for one name: Blush.

She told a different story to the sheriff, knowing full well law enforcement had no power over the workings of the Syndicate, and also because it would reveal her own involvement with that organization. So she told them a man had tried to rob her, and that Incenio had died trying to defend her. When asked about the boards over the doors and windows, the saloonkeeper said they were a “special security measure” that had been tripped on accident.

“Why didn’t you just use a spider to poison him?” Baskerville had asked her.

Her tone grew dark. “I wanted him to see it coming. I wanted to see him eaten alive.”

Baskerville never knew how much she hated the general. She had indicated some run-ins with the man in the past, many of which were unpleasant, but he had never seen the two interact.

“I can’t report him,” she’d said with tears in her eyes. “Because I tried to kill him, that’s much worse than what he did to me. The Boss would have me punished. If I don’t deliver the supplies…” She held out the paper Blush had dropped behind the counter. “It’s a map. This is where he wants me to deliver it.”

It was the same camp located near Edén.

“Damn him.” Baskerville wanted to tear the paper apart in his hands. “But Edén still has a little time. If I can get Incenio there before Blush does anything, then the coffin would be safe underground.”

The saloonkeeper shook her head at him. “Is that all you care about?”

He’d said nothing in reply.

And he kept up the silence as they walked together. Merula was a like a burr he couldn’t seem to pick off. From the moment they left the saloon after the killing, she had stayed close, not leaving him for more than a few minutes at a time. It made him feel ridiculous, like the two of them were parents and it was their child that had died.

People watched them as they passed. Some whispered behind their hands, as many were still uncertain of what had happened at the saloon. It was mainly Merula they wondered about. Though she kept to herself and ran her business in peace, Baskerville found it didn’t save her from having a reputation. Her appearance and saloon were enough to garner attention from the townsfolk, and she’d already had a fling or two with some of the local men. The women did not like that. However, the rumors never went beyond Merula being a floozy and a sometimes a spooky witch. Any knowledge of the Syndicate had yet to arrive in this fairly new town.

Baskerville had no problem being associated with her, though. He would be leaving soon anyway. It seemed no one made the connection between him and the priest who was going around the day before trying to help a teenager find work. Either people here had poor facial recognition or his disguise really was that good. But it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Even if they knew who he was, he wouldn’t stick around long enough for it to affect him.

The two of them stopped in front of the saloon. The doors were locked and the windows covered on the inside with canvas tarps to keep out prying eyes. The wagon Blush left behind had been pulled around to the back, and the horses boarded at the livery. Merula was bitter about the expense of the horses considering what little revenue she got from the saloon would hardly cover the livery fee let alone the damages to her business. Baskerville offered to help her pay and suggested the idea of selling Incenio’s donkey to make up for some of the additional costs. She agreed.

Merula inserted the key into the door and walked in, followed by her friend. He closed the door behind him to shut out the noise from the street, and the scrutiny of the community. The saloonkeeper lifted her veil and went to work lighting the gas lamps throughout the room, except the chandelier. She would not be lighting that elaborate piece of decor when there would be no visitors this night.

Once done, she wiped her eyes and sniffled. “You don’t need to stay.”

“I can help you clean up,” he suggested. “I’ll clean the blood stains off the floor.” Had he now become the burr?

“I don’t think anything will ever clean that up.” She looked at the shattered mirror and what was left of the bottles on the shelves. “It’ll cost me a fortune to replace that mirror. It was custom made. I had it imported from France!”

The air in the room pressed down on them. Baskerville felt like he was back in the dream, with the weight of the sea crushing him from all angles. He could almost swim through this thick, depressing atmosphere.

Merula picked up a broom from a corner near the bar. She began to sweep up the glass and bits of spiders that had been caught in Blush’s assault. The glass shards clinked together as they were swept into a pile and they sparkled in the gaslights. The _shish-shish-shish_ of the broom filled the room.

Baskerville considered the blood spray near the destroyed mirror. He’d had to dispose of his clothes and buy a new set because of the stains. He’d only had one pair on him after all, aside from the cassock, which he wasn’t going to wear in this town anymore. But Merula couldn’t replace the bloodied boards as easily without ripping them out.

Then there was the ceiling. Could the holes be patched? How was Merula going to get up there and clean off the spider guts that had splattered there? Compounded with the loss of Incenio, the task seemed enormous.

_What ruin. Blush does nothing but leave ruin everywhere he goes._

_But I_ _’ve done the same. I’m no better than him._

_“I can choose to do good now. Everyone can.”_

He looked at the blood again. It would take some time to clean up, and even then some of the stains would remain ingrained in the wood, forever a reminder of an innocent life that had been taken.

 _Blush tried to kill me back in Ed_ _én when I was only trying to reason with him. Then he attacks my friends and kills one of them._ As he recalled the events, the poisonous spring of rage and indignation gushed forth once more. _I_ _’m tired of what a sick bastard he is._

“Merula, how many rifles would you say you have in storage?”

She looked up at his question. “What? Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“About two hundred… It’s been a while since I’ve done inventory.”

“What else?”

“Revolvers, ammunition… Knives and a couple of swords—don’t ask me why. And whatever technology the Syndicate decides to send my way.” She cocked her head. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m going to need it. All of it. I might also need a little food.”

Merula’s fingers tensed around the broom handle. “I thought you were only going back to bury Incenio?”

“I will. But I can’t let Blush get away with all he’s done.”

“So you’re actually going to do it? You’re going back there to…?”

“I have to give those people a chance. If I’m going to have Incenio buried there…I want there to be people who will put flowers on his grave.” He paused. “Besides…I feel like I owe it to him. I know nothing will bring him back, but I could’ve done more for him, and I didn’t.”

Merula chuckled. “He must’ve made quite an impression on you. I always knew you were softer than you seemed.”

His cheeks warmed. “What about yourself? You cried for him when you knew him for less than two days.”

She ignored his remark. “Are you planning to go alone?”

“If I have to.”

Merula pulled off the veil and tossed it to the nearest table. “I’ll go with you.”


	10. Chapter 10

The wagon rolled onto the road in the pale, predawn light. The chilly air nipped at Baskerville’s face as he slapped the reins to goad the horses on, Merula sitting beside him on the seat with a black shawl over her head. For the trip she chose to wear a black riding skirt, matching black boots, and a white blouse. The bruise on her cheek had darkened. Her blouse’s high collar, buttoned at the neck, hid most of the bruising on her throat.

The horses pulled the wagon along at a slower pace than Baskerville would’ve liked, but the load in the wagon weighed them down. He looked over his shoulder at the coffin. He had covered it in a tarp and secured it with ropes over the weaponry that filled the wagon bed. His own horse trailed along by a rope behind them.

“It’s fine,” Merula said. She held a medium-sized box in her lap. Holes dotted the sides and top. If Baskerville dared to look, sometimes he would see a hairy leg poking out from one of the holes.

“I was looking to make sure no one saw us leave,” he said.

“You lie. You were looking to see if the coffin was okay.”

Baskerville didn’t deny it. It had been the last thing they loaded and he had been supremely fussy over how it lay over the supplies. He wanted it level and not tilted one way or the other, nor did he want a single speck of dirt to soil its white paint. He had made sure the tarp covered every inch of it.

“Are you sure you want to go?” he asked her.

“You keep asking me that. Yes, I want to go.”

They had been over this subject several times already. Baskerville stressed time and again what the risks were, and suggested Merula sell her saloon and ditch the Syndicate while she could, but she had refused.

The land opened up to a sea of sage. The road narrowed and the ruts faded in and out from under the brush. Baskerville kept his eyes on his surroundings, ever wary that they might be followed. Merula told him what Blush had threatened to do, and already it had been three days since his visit to the saloon. If he gets impatient—and he is apt to—then he _will_ do what he said. Blush hadn’t given Merula a specified time frame to deliver the supplies, but he wouldn’t wait long, and Baskerville worried their time might be up. If they met Blush on the road, Baskerville wouldn’t hesitate to kill him and anyone else with him. The Syndicate be damned.

As the morning dawned, the only life they saw were a coyote, a lizard, and a grouse that made Baskerville’s heart leap when it burst up with thunderous wings from the bushes beside them. No one passed them on the road. But he couldn’t let his guard down.

“You know we could get in deep trouble for this?” he said to Merula.

She rolled her eyes as this was the third time he’d mentioned it. “ _Yes_.”

“I just can’t believe you want to go through with it.”

“You’d better believe it. After that story you told me about how you tried to convince Blush to leave the village alone…?” Merula pushed the white shock of hair back under her shawl. “I swear, even if the Boss told him to stop, he wouldn’t. Someone needs to teach him a lesson.”

“That man’s too thick headed to learn a lesson. Listen, we’re not going to kill him. But if he lives through this, he won’t stop until he gets even with us. I’m worried about what he might try to do to you.”

Merula scoffed. “He can’t pull anything on me. He’s too obvious, and I always watch my back.” She tossed her head and grinned. “Besides, if we win, we’ll be the ones making threats. We can tell the Boss what Blush tried to do to _you_.”

“That’s being a tattle-tale,” Baskerville admonished, but he couldn’t stop his smile.

“And I know a dozen other rules he’s purposely broken,” Merula added. “If he burns down my saloon, the Boss will know about it and both Blush and I will be brought before him. The Boss is too smart to be fooled by Blush’s lies. He may be more likely to side with me since Blush was so unreasonable, demanding all my stuff and leaving me with nothing to work with.”

The wagon hit an unseen rock in the road and bumped up. Baskerville whipped around to check on the coffin, but it stayed secure in its place.

“What will the people think when you’ve brought him back like that?” Merula asked.

Baskerville resettled in his seat and took some time to think. There were so many unknowns on this journey. Indeed, what will the villagers do when they see what’s happened? Though Incenio didn’t die in his care, they would see it that way. He brought the boy to Gold Hill to meet his demise. They would blame him as they blamed him for stirring up the cavalry to burn their fields.

“They won’t like it,” he replied, “but I’ll give them the supplies anyway. I’m clearing my conscience.”

Light spilled out over the desert and elongated the shadows of the sagebrush and stones like black fingers reaching to the west. Warmth once again took hold of the land, and the merciless sun climbed higher.

Merula leaned forward in her seat and twirled a piece of hair in her fingers. She gave him a curious look. “You were so reluctant before. What stopped you?”

Baskerville watched the road ahead. He hesitated at first. Lying to her would be disrespectful, but he couldn’t tell her the full truth. “It’s something important. I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”

“You can’t tell even me?”

“No. It’s just that I need to stay in the Syndicate. I have my reasons.”

Merula chuckled. “I never thought you actually want to stay in the Syndicate. I don’t want to stay.”

“But we all have to, don’t we?”

“Or else they’ll execute us for desertion?”

“It’s not my life I’m trying to preserve. But I do need to stay alive for as long as possible.”

Merula’s brow crinkled at this response, but she didn’t ask what he meant.

 

* * *

 

 Baskerville first saw the torches burning along the walls. When they were but pinpricks in the distance, he stopped the wagon and reached for a rifle lying behind him on the supplies. He handed it to Merula, who held a lantern in front of her on a sturdy rod.

“Do you know how to use one?” he asked her.

“A bit,” she admitted. “Guns were never quite my weapon of choice, but I’ll use it.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to. I want one out just in case.”

There would be people watching along the walls, and there was no knowing what sort of reception the two of them would get. He knew the watchmen may not be pleased to see him again, but first they had to know who he was and that he’d brought aid. Whether they would accept it remained uncertain.

“Seeing this wagon might make them nervous,” he said. “They might think it’s a trap. I’ll go alone and talk to the watchmen on the wall. If they can send at least one person out to see the wagon, then I might be able to convince them we’re here to help.”

“Even then they might not believe us,” said Merula.

“We have to try.”

He allowed the wagon to get a little closer to the village before dismounting. He left on foot, leaving his associate behind in the darkness with the lantern.

He forged ahead into the desert. Despite the hour, the nightlife was as abundant as Gold Hill. A pack of coyotes echoed through the cold air, and crickets chirred in the brush around him. A light wind buffeted his jacket and he removed his hat with the thought the men on the wall would need to see his face. His knives were tucked away into a belt under his shirt. He had no intention of using them, but should he fail to be welcomed he would need to defend himself.

 _Like I told Merula, I need to live as long as I can. I need to live long enough to get my revenge. The Syndicate can kill me later._ Then what in the world was he doing here this night, putting his life on the line for this village? _Maybe Incenio’s death wasn’t really my fault, but I need to do something for him—I_ want _to do something for him._

_He’s in that wagon waiting to go home._

The wall loomed ahead. From what he could see in the torchlight, much of it had been repaired, though there appeared to be some new damage, albeit not enough to penetrate the defenses. He couldn’t tell if a cannon had caused it. The gates were only halfway repaired. The portion of the wall that had been pulverized by the cannons was also being restored.

He slowed and put himself into as much light as possible. A man along the wall came within sight but had yet to notice. Baskerville lifted his empty hands and called out, keeping his voice just loud enough for the man to hear.

The man stopped and readied his rifle. His muscular form, attributed to years of laborious farming, tensed and shadows pooled into his craggy features. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “I’ll kill you if you don’t answer!”

“You do remember me, don’t you?” Baskerville said. He waited for the reply, but the man didn’t move. “I was here not too long ago, as a…priest.”

Still the man didn’t move, but after a few moments he relaxed. He kept the rifle up and ready, though. “What are you doing back here? I thought Alejandro made you leave?”

“I did, but I’m back to bring you supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Yes, guns. And some food. You’ll need them against the cavalry. Is there any way I can talk to Alejandro or Sister Augustina?”

The man looked skeptical. “Why do you want to help us, and where are these guns and food you speak of? I don’t see anything.”

“I have them in a wagon just down the road. I didn’t want to bring it here in case you thought it was some kind of trap. I want someone from the village to confirm I’m telling the truth.”

The man’s brow furrowed heavily as if trying to decide if this was some kind of elaborate ruse. “Just one person?”

“Just one.”

Another villager, more slight in stature, came up next to the man. “Pedro, who are you talking to?”

Baskerville recognized that voice. “Nico.”

The tactician gave a start when he saw the false priest below. “What are you doing back here?”

“That’s what I asked him, too,” said Pedro. “He says he has supplies but it’s all on a wagon down the road.”

Nico was good at keeping his expressions neutral, but tonight the yellow cast from the torches highlighted the obvious suspicion in his face. He looked down his nose at Baskerville. “Supplies, eh? And why should we believe you?”

Baskerville had to re-explain the situation. “I came back to help. I told you before that I wanted to.” He gestured in the direction of the wagon. “Well, now I have something that can help. There are more than enough guns for every man, woman, and child. And I have a plan.”

“It ought to be better than your last one,” Nico quipped dryly. To Pedro he said, “I’ll go check out the wagon.”

“Are you sure?” Pedro asked. “I can go. We can’t afford to lose you.”

Nico smiled and shook his head. “I’ll go. I think we can trust him. He risked his life for us last time.”

The tactician left the wall and reappeared at the gates. Several more men gathered on the wall, but more appeared at the open entrance as Nico departed. The people stared at Baskerville, some surprised and others glaring at him. His betrayal was still fresh.

“Take me there,” Nico said. He held a rifle against his shoulder.

The wagon’s lantern could be seen from the wall, and Baskerville led the tactician to it. Nico gave a noise of amazement when he saw Merula in the seat of the wagon. He hadn’t expected a woman.

“This is Merula, a friend of mine,” Baskerville said. “She’s here to help, too.”

Nico didn’t ask questions, so Baskerville took the lantern, led him to the back of the wagon, and pulled back the tarp. He opened one of the boxes and showed him the rifles within. “We have about two hundred guns, rifles and revolvers. We also brought some food since I don’t know how much you have left.”

“Not a lot,” Nico said. “What’s that, though?” He nodded at something white that peeked out from the canvas. It stood out starkly against the other boxes.

Baskerville’s heart plummeted. He’d forgotten about Incenio. “U-Um, we can talk about that later—”

“Tell me what’s in it. Show me.” This had been spoken more forcefully.

“I can’t actually show you…”

“Then _what is it_?” Nico squinted. “It looks like a…”

“It’s… It’s a coffin.”

“You used a coffin to store guns?”

“No.” Baskerville paused. “Do you remember Incenio?”

The neutrality evaporated, replaced with shock. “Manuel’s boy?” Nico looked at the coffin again. “He went missing suddenly. We thought maybe the cavalry got him.” He pinned a scowl on the false priest. “Did he go with you? How did he _die_?”

“I can explain everything,” said Baskerville. “I wanted to bring him back so you could bury him.”

He didn’t know the extent of Nico’s relationship with Incenio or any of the boy’s deceased family, but the man’s reaction was telling. He seemed disturbed, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and it took him a little time to collect himself.

“I can tell you the people won’t be happy about this,” Nico said. “But they might forgive you since you brought help. _I_ might forgive you, anyway. And you brought the boy back. I suppose that counts for something.”

With that, he gave Baskerville and Merula permission to enter the village.

 

* * *

 

Nico roused the people from their sleep. They left their homes to meet in the village square, many of them still wearing their nightclothes. Children wiped the sleep from their eyes and looked about in wonderment. Their parents kept them close. Some brought with them hoes and axes with the thought that they were being called out for battle, or perhaps surrender. The crowd murmured in uncertain voices. The wagon sat in the center of the square with Nico standing on the seat, the canvas tarp pulled back to reveal the boxes. The coffin lay in full view.

Alejandro stepped into the crowd and came to the front. Sister Augustina was late in coming, probably because she chose to don her habit instead of walking out in her nightgown in front of everyone. People brought forth lanterns to see better.

“Unless the cavalry is standing right outside the gates, there had better be a good reason to call us out at this hour, Nico,” said Alejandro, and none too happily. “The people lack enough sleep as it is.”

“Cranky old man,” Nico muttered just loud enough for Baskerville to hear. It brought a faint smile to the false priest’s lips. “Our exile has returned, but he has brought with him the answer to our prayers.” He reached into one of the boxes and held up two rifles, which he tossed to the nearest men. The men grinned with joy. A cheer rose up from the crowd as weapons were passed out to men and women. With Merula’s help, Baskerville unloaded the food from the wagon. As he looked out over the people, he calculated that if the food were rationed, it would last but a few days in addition to what the town already had left. According to Nico, the village had enough to last them three more days. If the military did not attack again soon, then those days would afford them time to put Baskerville’s plan into action, if they chose to accept it.

Sister Augustina and Alejandro watched the people as they chattered excitedly about this new development. The elder was still evaluating the situation, often glancing at Baskerville and Merula. He didn’t look at all pleased with any of this, possibly because the man he exiled from Edén had the gall to come back, and with a stranger no less. Baskerville figured the elder wouldn’t be thrilled to find out what happened to Incenio, either. He dreaded the moment he’d have to tell everyone.

The weapons were distributed and any leftovers were taken to Goyo and Emilia’s house, which had lately been converted into a sort of headquarters. The food was taken to the church to be stored.

Nico helped Baskerville take the coffin from the wagon to the church where they placed it in front of the altar. Alejandro, Sister Augustina, Merula, and about a dozen townspeople followed after them. Though the nun remained taciturn during the transfer, the villagers kept questioning Baskerville until he couldn’t put it off anymore. Luckily Nico sensed his hesitation and took it upon himself to address them.

“We all wondered what happened to Incenio when he disappeared,” he said, and that was all he needed to say.

The crowd fell silent as they settled their attention on the coffin. A few looked at Sister Augustina for her response, but she was too stricken to speak. Her hand covered her mouth.

Where the nun was ashen, Alejandro had turned red with anger. “How could this be?” he said. “How…?”

“The general who leads the cavalry killed him,” said Baskerville. “Incenio caught up with me on my way to Gold Hill. He didn’t want to come back, but when we got to town he decided he needed to return to Edén. He never had the chance, until now.” He went on to elaborate Incenio’s short stint in the saloon and the meeting with Blush. “He wanted me to help him but I refused.”

“You didn’t have to come back.” These were the first words Sister Augustina had spoken since his arrival. “You have no obligation to us. We will bury Incenio, but you don’t have to stay.”

“I _want_ to stay. What Blush did to Incenio was unacceptable, and what he is doing to you is a crime of the worst kind. I came back to give you a chance to beat him.”

More people filtered into the church and the crowd grew. Their eyes flitted from him to the coffin with curiosity and puzzlement, but Augustina’s countenance lightened and her full lips curved up.

He couldn’t ignore the irony of his own declaration. He felt like a fraud, and not just because he had faked being a priest. He was a fraud because he sought to save this village when so many times in the past _he_ had been the destroyer, just like Blush. The rumors in the Syndicate weren’t far from the truth. He had taken lives. He had ruined homes. He had sought to destroy everyone and everything for a dream that died as suddenly as his sister. Now he would destroy himself for vengeance. But if there was one thing he could save, one thing he could preserve to reinstate his own humanity, this was it.

“You said you have a plan?” said Nico.

“I do, but I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“Why is that?”

“It will require allowing the cavalry into the village.” He gauged the people’s reactions. They gaped at him in disbelief. “You have walls to keep them out. How about we use those same walls to keep them in? Trap them. From on high, on the walls or on roofs, we can win. They won’t have their cannons because they’ll believe we’re surrendering. But we need to be careful because Blush is fast. He has guns that can kill several people at once.”

“You speak of a mass slaughter!” said Alejandro.

“It’s either kill or be killed,” Baskerville replied. “I’m sorry it sounds like that, but if we don’t do it first, then we’re the ones who’ll be slaughtered. Take your pick.”

The people exchanged glances and then looked to Augustina.

“Ought we to pray about it first, Sister?” Alejandro asked her.

The nun locked stares with Baskerville. He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Something about the way she regarded him plunged deep into his soul like a phantom hand, searching out something he didn’t quite know. He became uncomfortably aware of the spear in the basement beneath him, and it seemed the soles of his feet burned with the knowledge. For a few seconds the room wavered in front of him. The air hummed in his ears. The hair on his arms stood up.

He hadn’t noticed he held his breath until she closed her eyes, and he blew out a long sigh.

“I already know the answer,” she said.

“Negotiating hasn’t worked,” said Nico, “and fending them off hasn’t worked. It’s about time we took the offense.”

“I agree,” said the nun. “We don’t have much time. Let’s get started.”

She led the people out of the church with Alejandro and Nico trailing behind. As they were leaving, the tactician tried to assure Alejandro because the elder wasn’t fully convinced of the plan. Baskerville was glad to have Nico on his side now.

He went to follow them out the doors when Merula grabbed his sleeve. “Can I have a word with you?” she asked.

She took him to a far corner and waited for the church to empty before speaking. Her green eyes flashed with a nervous light.

“Did I hear that right? Sister Augustina?” she said.

“Yes, that’s her name.”

“ _The_ Sister Augustina?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Yes.” Merula checked the front doors for any lingering townsfolk. “I once had a man come into my saloon who told me an interesting story. He said before Sister Augustina became a nun, she had a visitation from an angel in the desert. This angel said her job was to protect the weak and innocent, and it gave her something special to help her do that. But this man told me she was at another town somewhere around here, one smaller than Edén. He said the town sat on a rich oil reserve and that some big oil business from back east wanted the land. She went there and stopped it.”

“How?”

Merula wet her lips. “He said the ground opened up and some hired mercenaries from the oil company fell in. Then the ground closed up, and the oil business never came back.”

The laughter bubbled up before he could stop it. “You really believe that? If she did that, why doesn’t she do it now with Blush and his men?”

Merula shrugged. “I don’t know if I believe it. The guy who told me the story was quite drunk. Tell me, is this so-called weapon in the church a spear?”

“How did you figure?”

“Because that’s what the guy told me. He said she put the tip of the spear in the ground and there was an earthquake. Whether the story is true or not, I don’t know, but he looked pretty traumatized when he told it. He told me he was one of the few mercenaries who survived.”

Baskerville shook his head. “He was exaggerating.”

“Maybe so, but… The way she looked at you just now, there’s something different about her.”

He couldn’t deny that, but he was adamant it had nothing to do with the spear’s supposed power. The story was too fantastic not to be fabricated. It sounded like the bar fly was just begging for attention.

Merula folded her arms. “I find it strange you should laugh about it, though. Isn’t that gun the Boss is after powerful in the same way?”

“What way?” He thought of the manual and all the information contained therein. Some pages outlined how the bullets would move like animals from the Chinese zodiac. Apparently the other gun Blush sought did something similar. Baskerville had never quite known what to make of it. He only assumed the gun had unique properties that made it powerful, so much so that he could kill the Boss with it. What those properties were he would have to explore as soon as he got his hands on it.

“We know very little about it,” he told Merula, “and we’ve not heard any stories about earthquakes and pits opening up to swallow people. It’s just a gun.”

Merula eyed him but relented. She didn’t press the issue further.


	11. Chapter 11

Baskerville stood on a ladder and looked out over the wall, past the blackened fields and toward the canyon that led to cavalry encampment. He had borrowed a spyglass from Nico and fixed his sights on the canyon. For hours he would sit watching that one spot, and for hours people would pass below him in the village to ask what the status was. The answer was always the same: The cavalry remained absent, even after three whole days of waiting for a response.

Sister Augustina had drawn up a letter of surrender and had it dispatched to the camp. They had expected the cavalry to react immediately. Instead, they waited, and waited, and waited some more. The men were certainly there. The messenger, an older gentleman named Ramón, had seen them, though he had attached the letter to a goat and directed the animal to run into the camp for fear he would be shot if the men saw him. He reported the soldiers sat around doing nothing. The three cannons were still present.

“Did you see their commander?” Baskerville had asked. “He’s tall and blond.”

“No,” said Ramón. “There were many men there, but I did not see the likes of him.”

Baskerville wished to go see for himself, but he needed to be here should the cavalry decide to move. But he wanted to know _why_ they hadn’t moved yet. Blush could very well be in the camp, since Ramón had only seen it for a moment, but Baskerville’s gut told him something was amiss. The general could’ve gone back to Gold Hill to make good on his threat to burn down Merula’s saloon, or he might be doing something else. Baskerville could be sure of one thing at least, and that was the cavalry hadn’t been ordered to march out, even if they got the letter. Blush would’ve been eager to take advantage of it. He would’ve been at the village the same day the letter was sent.

_But he’s not. Why?_

It could’ve been any reason, but Baskerville supposed it helped the village to have more time to prepare. He had feared they’d have a minimal preparation before things were set in motion. But with the lull, the people put themselves to work fixing the wall and gate, practicing their shooting skills, and fine tuning the plan. Baskerville took his position at the wall daily, and villagers brought him food and water. His betrayal faded from their memory. They were happy to have his help now that he had proved useful.

He lowered the spyglass and let his attention wander in the direction of the cemetery. Though he couldn’t see it from this angle, he could still see in his mind’s eye the temporary wooden marker for Incenio’s grave. He hadn’t attended the funeral. He’d stood from afar and watched the proceedings, Merula beside him dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. At the time, he’d felt it wasn’t appropriate to stand with the others because he was an outsider, and also because he still felt responsible for what happened to the boy. The ceremony had had to be quick, and the coffin buried in haste. None of it seemed right to him. When he had buried Chisel, he had taken a long time, as if hurrying was disrespectful of her memory, like he had something else to do that was more important than making sure his sister’s final resting place was looking proper.

When the mourners left Incenio’s grave, the site seemed lonely and forgotten. They had interred Incenio beside Father Michael. The flowers for the priest had long since wilted and turned brown, and the villagers hadn’t had time to decorate Incenio’s plot. It was an insult in addition to the tragedy of the boy’s death.

All the more reason for Baskerville to hate Blush for what he did.

_He’ll get what’s coming to him. I’ll show him he’s bullied the wrong people._

Someone tugged on the hem of his trousers. “Anything yet?” Merula asked. A rifle with a strap hung over her shoulder.

“No. I don’t know what would take him so long,” he replied.

“Maybe he went back to Gold Hill to see what’s taking _me_ so long,” she said with a wry smile. “If he needs supplies that bad, he might’ve gone somewhere else, though I don’t know where in this godforsaken country he could get anything.” She looked out over the village square. “The people are as ready as they’ll ever be.”

“Where is Sister Augustina?”

“In the church praying. She said if we still have time, she would like the children and the old people evacuated.”

“She’s right. We should’ve thought of that earlier. Tell her I think it’s a good idea.” He went back to the spyglass.

Merula tugged on his hem again. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

“I know.”

“You were moaning in your sleep last night.”

Baskerville hoped she didn’t see his cheeks redden.

“Are you having nightmares?” she asked.

He put the spyglass down and looked at her. “It’s not because I’m afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“I’m fine.”

Merula peered at him with concern. “All right. If you say so.” She walked away to the church where she would report to the nun.

Merula had always been too perceptive of him. Somehow she always found the chinks in his armor and exploited them—in a friendly way. She knew the reason for his lack of sleep, but she didn’t know the content of those nightmares.

In his dreams he kept returning to the flooded, underwater Edén. Most of the time he would float and watch the dark shadow figure approach from the church. It would stand in the plaza, studying him from a distance without a single word to Baskerville’s persistent questions.

Last night, however, the dream changed. The figure darted from the plaza to stand nose to nose with him. He had stared into that mass of darkness and didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so black, except he had: Sister Augustina’s eyes.

Baskerville needed to know. He needed to know who or what this being was. He’d asked again and again and again, growing more desperate each time the dream appeared. But the figure would never respond. The groans Merula had heard were his own frustrations pushing forth from the boundary of his dreamworld.

He fiddled with the spyglass in his hands. _Is the black figure my impending doom? Will I die here?_

A group of men ambled by, talking in low tones Baskerville couldn’t understand because they used Spanish. One glanced up, smiled, saluted him, and moved on with the rest. Baskerville waved back. He saw Nico conversing with Goyo and Alejandro at a table with a large sheet of paper spread out, their plan for the cavalry. Merula emerged from the church with Sister Augustina and they walked to the table. Men and women alike loitered about with rifles or guns over their shoulders and strapped to their hips, some managing an optimistic upturn of of the lips. Children were hidden away in their homes, but their voices could be heard from the open windows acting out pretend battles.

Baskerville took in the whole scene. These people had far more courage than himself. They were putting everything on the line to fight for their home, even though the odds were against them. The seasoned strength he  had developed alone on the streets of New York City was the same kind these people had developed as a community in the remote West. He understood their need to fight. Maybe that’s what drew him back, seeing himself in these people, in Incenio. He was witnessing an injustice, not too unlike what was done to him in the city. No one would help him and his sister then. But now, he wanted to do for these people what others had refused to do for him.

“I can choose to do good now,” he said quietly, echoing Incenio’s words. _I used to, and I always wanted to. Somewhere along the way the Syndicate robbed me of my soul. Or maybe I gave it to them._ He couldn’t be sure. All he knew was he needed to get it back. But perhaps it was far simpler than he initially thought. He just had to make the choice.

He shifted his position so he could sit on the wall. Sister Augustina called together the villagers and announced some of them would evacuate. A few protested, but they respected her enough to obey. Baskerville worried for them. He wondered if the cavalry wasn’t watching them at that moment and would see people leaving. Would the soldiers give chase should they overtake Edén? He didn’t know where the people would run to, but he supposed they knew this land better than him.

The evacuees gathered their most precious possessions into packs and filed out the gates, about thirty total. Some women, elderly folks, and people who had sustained injuries over the last few days joined them. Healthier people went along to help and lead. They took wagons and horses and mules. It would remain to be seen whether they would return to their relatives or a heap of rubble. Their tearful families sent them off, knowing this could be the last time they see one another.

Baskerville tried not to watch. He didn’t think the scene would affect him, but it did. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have family like that. His sister had been the only family he’d had, and with her death he lost connection with people. He was alone.

“I don’t see why they didn’t do this before,” said Merula. She had appeared at the wall below him. “In fact, I don’t know why they didn’t all just abandoned the village.”

“They can’t leave the spear, and they were afraid if they tried to take it with them, the cavalry would chase them. Their only chance is to fight.”

“I see.”

The gates closed, and the people resumed repairs. The long string of evacuees receded west into the wilderness where they vanished over a rise.

Time passed, and the sun sank below the horizon. The evening sky burned red and orange, and the underbellies of the clouds flared with color. By the time Baskerville was relieved of his post, a single star sparked to life in the fading dome of the heavens. He walked across the plaza to a small bonfire burning at its center. Many of the villagers gathered around it, including Nico, Goyo, Emilia, and Merula.

Merula and Emilia had struck up a fast friendship and were often seen together chatting or helping with the work on the walls. The people were intensely curious about Merula, where she came from, and how she knew Baskerville. The saloonkeeper told them most of the truth. She said she’d lost her family at a young age and met Baskerville through a “mutual acquaintance.” She happened to be in Gold Hill when he and the boy arrived. Using “connections,” as she put it, they were able to obtain the supplies and weapons for Edén. The story was vague, but not too vague that it was obvious she was hiding something, and no one pried further.

Baskerville could tell Alejandro was still uneasy and unhappy about the false priest’s return, and the plan they would carry out. But the village elder didn’t ask questions anymore. Sister Augustina had tried to convince him to leave with the others who evacuated, but the old man had refused, asserting he was strong enough to stay and fight.

Baskerville left the wall and joined everyone at the fire. The strategy table sat close by, and Nico rolled up the paper with the plan. He strode over to Baskerville and said with a grin, “Did they give up on us? Don’t tell me we made all these plans for nothing!”

“Merula and I were just discussing that today,” Baskerville replied. He told him about it and added, “He’ll definitely come. He’d never give up.”

“We’ve been flying the white flag for three days.” The flag Nico referred to had been affixed to the bell tower of the church. It hung limp in the still air. “Surely they’ve seen it by now.”

“My guess is the general isn’t in the camp. The soldiers can’t move without him.”

“Should we send someone to go check? No one has seen the camp since Ramón sent the letter.”

“That’s your call, not mine.”

Nico looked beyond him. “We may not need to.”

The man who had replaced Baskerville at the wall hopped down from his ladder and came trotting toward them. Worry etched his face.

“I see someone coming!” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I think it’s the cavalry!”

Baskerville rushed back to the wall and climbed the ladder. The man gave him the spyglass and he scoped out the mountain road. A cloud of dust billowed up from the trail. He counted around fifty men on horseback, and he swallowed when he saw more horses hauling the cannons. The man leading them was none other than Blush. The general wore a terrible scowl, rather than smug satisfaction at knowing the village had bowed before him.

The people below waited for his report. “The whole cavalry is coming,” he confirmed. “Everyone to your posts!”

The people darted away on his command, and within moments most of them were hidden in their places. Alejandro and Nico stood in the plaza. Two men stationed on the wall at the gates waited for the cavalry to approach. Sister Augustina went into the church, and Baskerville took a spot near a house, peering around the corner to look at Nico and Alejandro. Merula had gone outside the walls to scale them from the other side, just out of view of the cavalry. Others joined her.

_And once Blush is trapped, everyone on the outside will climb onto the walls to surround him. …But I don’t want him to see me, or Merula._ It had been Baskerville’s hope the two of them would stay out of sight for the most part. If Blush didn’t see them, they could avoid a whole lot of trouble after this. The Syndicate would not punish them, because the Boss wouldn’t know two of his own members had acted against another, though the soldiers may or may not recognize him.

The town almost appeared deserted. A woman stood in the doorway of a house, while a man loitered beside a water trough. Goyo sat on the edge of the well near the front of the church. Nico and Alejandro stood calmly in the center of the plaza, hands behind their backs. The low rumble of hooves came nearer.

The men on the wall picked their way down the ladders and pulled open the gates. By the time the doors opened, the cavalry was already there. The villagers scrambled to get out of the way before the riders came through. Dust rolled in as the horses tromped over the parched plaza.

As Baskerville watched, he worried the village couldn’t contain all the men and their horses, but most of all he worried about the cannons. Since the cannons had been at the end of the procession, he waited for them to come through the gates, but when the cavalry spread out and stopped, he couldn’t see them from his position.

_Did they leave the cannons outside?_ If that were so, were soldiers with them, ready to light the fuses? _Maybe Blush isn’t so stupid after all._

The cavalry filled the plaza and surrounded Alejandro and Nico, both of whom had lost some of their nerve as they stared at the well-armed soldiers. Blush came forward, mounted high on a muscular brown sorrel. He reached into a pocket in his blue trousers and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. He held it out in a fist.

“So you finally came to your senses,” he said. “You’re smarter than I thought.”

Alejandro eyed the soldiers. “Yes, we thought it would be smarter than losing our lives.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Alejandro. I have lived here my whole life. I am a leader…of sorts.”

Blush pointed his chin toward Nico. “And you?”

“Nico, also a leader…of sorts.”

The general glanced around at the few villagers he could see. “Place is pretty empty.”

“We evacuated the most vulnerable. The rest are hiding, because they are afraid of you,” said Alejandro.

“As they should be.”

Baskerville studied the soldiers. Though they sat at ease, each one carried a pistol or rifle in their hands. It was obvious they didn’t trust the situation, or perhaps the general had something else planned. Blush had gone to Merula for supplies, and yet didn’t get any, so had he found another armory? Or were his men putting on a show of strength they didn’t have? And where were the cannons?

“So where is it?” Blush snapped. He held up the letter. “You said you would give it up.”

“If we give you the weapon, will you leave us in peace?” asked Alejandro.

Blush’s full lips pulled back to show yellow teeth. “Sure.”

_He’s lying._ Of course this would happen. Blush was like a cat that liked to toy with his prey until he finally killed it. He never wanted to let the village alone. He had planned from the beginning to annihilate it.

_If that’s the case, his men got the supplies they needed. That may be what took him so long to answer the letter._ Baskerville gave a start. _The cannons…!_

Sister Augustina appeared at the open doors of the church, walked through the entrance and down the steps, seemingly without an ounce of fear in her stride, her cold, black-eyed gaze secured on the general. In her hand she wielded the glass-headed spear. The lustrous point sparkled as if all the stars in the galaxy were trapped within.

A low murmur rose from the soldiers. Some maneuvered their steeds away until Blush stood alone. The horses snorted and tossed their heads. One reared up. A few other riders turned and exited out the gate. Nico and Alejandro stepped away as the nun came to face the general.

Blush seethed at the sight of the spear. “What the hell is this?”

“The weapon you asked for,” said Augustina. She held it out to him. “Take it.”

“That’s _not_ what I asked for!”

“Yes, it is. You have besieged us for more than a month, demanding we hand over the relic hidden in our church. We surrender it to you now.”

Blush gripped the reins of his horse as his face betrayed his mounting rage. “You’re lying!”

Augustina tapped the butt of the spear on the ground. “It is no lie. This is our weapon.”

“It’s supposed to be a gun!”

“Who told you that?”

Blush fell silent.

Baskerville pulled a knife from his jacket. _He’s been acting on a hunch this whole time. Idiot. He should’ve investigated the rumors like I did, but why didn’t he?_

It was a question he didn’t think he’d ever find the answer to. By the looks of it, this meeting was going to get messy.

_Now’s the time._

The nun smiled. She lifted the spear and waved it in an arc over her head. The signal.

The villagers who had opened the gates rushed to close them, then brought down the bar to lock them. They then disappeared among the houses. The soldiers threw nervous glances at one another. Several brought their rifles and pistols close.

Blush looked over his shoulder as his contingent stirred. “What’s going on?”

Numerous figures appeared along the tops of the walls, men and women. They pointed their weapons at the cavalry below. The soldiers looked to their commander, but Blush took in the scene with utter astonishment, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

He pinned a scalding glare on the nun. “A trap! I should’ve known, but who would’ve thought a bunch of stupid farmers would have the nerve?”

“You did say we were smarter than you thought,” said Augustina.

As soon as the last word left her mouth, the villagers opened fire.


	12. Chapter 12

A melee of terrified soldiers and horses jostled about, scrambling for the gate. Men fell dead from their saddles and a few horses fell with them. Others fought back, shooting at whatever target they could see on the walls.

Baskerville saw a man drop from the wall, then another, and another. He chucked a knife at a soldier aiming at a villager on his perch above before he could pull the trigger. The man grunted and reached for the blade embedded in his back, but he couldn’t get far enough, succumbed to the wound, and fell from his seat to the earth. Plumes of dust rose from the chaos, obscuring the battlefield as Baskerville tried to take out another soldier and missed. The man jumped from his saddle and dashed away, rifle in hand.

Baskerville used the _vigas_ to help him to the roof of the house beside him. He flattened himself on the roof and pulled forward to the edge. Gunshots sounded from the people on the wall behind him. A man shouted in pain, and another called after him. Baskerville managed to take out three more soldiers with knives to the head.

He searched out Blush. What with the cloud of grit he couldn’t make out who was who.

_Damn it. Where’d that bastard go?_

The only way out would be by climbing the wall via the roof of one of the houses.

Baskerville got down from the house and ran along the walls toward the back of the village. A rider came careening toward him, shrieking with his pistol fixed on the false priest. Baskerville dispatched him with a knife to the heart, and the horse blew by without its rider.

Another frantic, horseless soldier backed into the wall from between two houses, wildly firing off his rifle at whatever pursued him. When he saw Baskerville, he abandoned his gun and ran away screaming.

Shadows danced over the walls. The battle raged on, yet no sounds came from the cannons. As Baskerville made his way to the back wall behind the church, some of the noise diminished. Far down the wall he saw a man in the torchlight, one of the villagers, disappear over the other side using a ladder. Perhaps some of the soldiers were trying to flee and the villagers pursued them.

Baskerville came to the backside of the church. A small set of steps led to a door that was ajar. As he came closer he saw a light from within. He nudged the door wider and peered in. Though he could see no one, there were voices from somewhere near the altar. A shout rang out, followed by a gunshot.

“Give me the gun!” said Blush.

“I-I don’t have a gun,” said Augustina, her voice rising in terror. “We’ve told you that we don’t have a gun!”

The nun must’ve retreated to the church at the start of the fight, and Blush had followed her. Was he still convinced Edén held one of the two guns?

From his position Baskerville could see the spear lying on the floor, its head glistening in the yellow light of the iron chandelier. The general and the nun were just beyond his view.

Blush spewed forth a string of curses. There was a loud thump and a muffled cry. “All that work for nothing!” he said.

“P-Please… We don’t—”

Baskerville had to make a decision. Though he hadn’t wanted Blush to see him, he knew Augustina wouldn’t survive much longer if the general kept this up. She couldn’t reach for the spear to protect herself. Even if she could, she didn’t have a chance against her assailant.

He eased through the door, knife in hand. He slipped to the altar and listened.

“It’s in the basement, isn’t it?” said Blush. “Tell me!”

“There is _nothing_ in the basement,” the nun said, her voice strained and cracked. “Go see for yourself.” Another loud thump and she cried out.

Baskerville peered around the altar. Blush had Augustina on the floor, trapping her with his foot on her chest. He’d given her a good beating to the face as blood dribbled from her nose and split lower lip. Bruises covered her face. She struggled weakly under the general’s boot. The man paused, probably to consider the situation. If the nun wouldn’t relent under physical pressure, then perhaps she was telling the truth.

“I will, then,” he said, “and you’re coming with me.” He holstered the gun in his hand and reached down to yank her up. She grasped at the rock-like fist that pulled at her habit. He brought her close enough that their noses almost touched. “If I don’t find what I’m looking for, you’re dead. We’ll burn down this church and the rest of this town.”

“You would do it anyway,” said the nun.

“You’re right. So you’re dead either way.” Blush proceeded to drag her toward the door to the basement—and stopped when a knife bit into his left forearm. He yelped and released Augustina. He grabbed at his injured arm, plucked the knife from his flesh, and threw the blade to the floor where it clattered away on the tiles. Blood leaked from between his fingers against the wound. “Damn it all! Who threw that?”

Baskerville stood up from the altar. “What did I tell you, Blush? It was a spear, not a gun.”

Blush’s jaw dropped. “Razy! You’re still here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“So _you’re_ behind all this? Did you plan this trap?”

“I call it a collaboration. It would be best if you gave up now.”

“Ha! You’d think I’d surrender to the likes of you?”

“No, I don’t think you’d surrender to me—not that easily, anyway. It seems war is the only language you understand.”

Though Blush’s right hand put pressure on the wound, the left hand of his injured arm hung dangerously close to his gun. It was a well known fact that the general was ambidextrous. However, with a wounded arm, he may not be able to draw as quickly. He would have to release the pressure on the wound to use his right hand, and that hand was now slippery with blood.

“Don’t even try it,” said Baskerville, and he showed Blush the knives gripped between his fingers. “I don’t want to have to kill you tonight, tempting as it is.”

Blush snarled at him. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

A low rumble shook the stones of the church. The three in the sanctuary looked about in confusion.

“Thunder,” said Augustina. She had crawled away from Blush and toward the pews where she rested. She wiped away at the blood that had dripped down her chin.

“Not thunder,” said Blush. “Cannons. The boys are blowing your walls to bits as we speak.”

The nun shook her head. “No. It’s thunder. The rain—the flood is coming.”

“What flood?”

Another rumble groaned, stretched, and then faded. The glass in the windows rattled.

“I must take the spear and go,” said Augustina. She staggered to her feet. “I need to—I must stop the water!”

“What are you babbling about?” Blush barked.

From beyond the walls of the church, gunfire rang out and people shouted. The front doors of the church were closed, making it impossible to see the status of the battle.

“Even if your men succeed tonight, you still won’t find a gun here,” he said. He leveled a hard stare at Blush. “What will your men think, knowing you dragged them into this mess, and, like you said, all for nothing?”

Blush snorted. “You’ve got some nerve judging _me_. How many people have _you_ killed? How many towns have _you_ ruined for a gun you never found?”

Augustina swiveled her head to give Baskerville a surprised look. On her chin red streaks glistened in the glow from the chandelier. Her large, dark eyes searched him for the answer to the general’s question.

“So why the big change, eh?” said Blush. “Why are you helping these cockroaches when before you never gave a damn?”

Baskerville said nothing. Though he looked straight at Blush, his peripheral vision watched the man’s hand near his gun.

_He won’t withdraw without a fight._

His fingers clenched around the blades. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“You’ve already done that yourself,” said Blush.

Baskerville had decided to make the first move, but he stopped when he saw something lower from the ceiling. He squinted at it, not sure what it was, and Blush noticed his opponent’s attention focused above. He glanced up.

An enormous spider dropped from its web and landed on Blush’s upturned face. The general screamed and clawed at the creature that had latched on. He stumbled back and desperately tried to detach it, but the spider held fast, covering his whole face with its legs extending around the man’s head. The spider’s bright red stripes made it look especially vicious and venomous.

Blush lost his sense of direction and tripped down the stairs in front of the altar. He crashed to the floor. Strangled curses issued from the mouth now covered with a spider’s body. The spider scrambled to the back of Blush’s head. The creature must’ve had extraordinarily strong legs, because the hairy appendages kept their hold in spite of the general’s attempts to remove it.

Baskerville stood dumbly with the knives between his fingers. Augustina gaped from her place on the floor. Blush stumbled in her direction and she scrabbled away toward the wall so he wouldn’t step on her. He smashed into a pew.

“Get it off!” he bellowed. The spider behind his head hissed.

Augustina found enough strength to move. She got up with one hand against her side. “Open the doors!” she said to Baskerville.

“But the—” he said.

Another spider dropped from the ceiling, this one bright blue and about half the size of the first one. It landed on the general’s face.

More screams tore from Blush’s throat. He flailed wildly as a third spider fell to burrow itself under his shirt.

Baskerville dropped his knives, ran to the doors, and flung them open. The plaza had cleared for the most part, though some villagers ran about with weapons in their hands and a soldier on horseback rushed for the open gates. Several bodies lay in the dust.

Augustina went for the spear. She took it up, aimed it at Blush’s backside, and jabbed him in the butt. Another howl, and Blush raced for the exit with one hand grabbing at the spiders and another pressed against his bum. He tumbled down the steps outside, and Baskerville shut the doors after him.

“He’ll be back,” Baskerville said. “We should get you out of—”

The nun collapsed, holding her side.

“Sister Augustina!” He ran to the nun’s side.

She gripped the spear with white knuckles. “I can’t… I must stay, because the flood…”

Thunder rattled windows again. Inside the church it was hard to tell if it was raining outside. Baskerville didn’t recall seeing rain when he had opened the doors.

He helped Augustina stand again. “Maybe it won’t happen tonight.”

She pulled off the coif and veil that had become crooked and soiled with blood. Her long braid was tied up in a bun at the base of her neck.

“I know it will happen tonight,” she said.

“But you didn’t say that earlier! How do you know it’ll happen?”

“I just know.”

That wasn’t good enough for Baskerville. “Can’t God wait until the end of this?”

He helped steady her as she leaned against him for support, and that was when he noticed the sheen on the side of her habit near her thigh. He touched the spot and she sucked in a breath. The fabric was torn.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“A bullet grazed me while I was outside.”

“This is a bit more than a flesh wound.” He hand came away bloody. Though the wound didn’t appear life threatening, it might be later if it became infected. Droplets and smears of red stained the tiled floor around them. “Can you walk?”

“Not well.”

“If we can get you out the back door—”

“No, take me to the belfry.”

“There’s no way you could get up there with that leg.”

“Then do _you_ propose to use the spear?”

“Wh-What?”

Augustina brought the weapon toward him. “If I cannot go, you must.”

“ _Me_?”

“Go to the belfry and wait for the waters to come. When you see it, hold the spear out in front of you. Its power will keep the water from coming into the village.”

“Who do you think I am, Moses? I don’t even believe in God!”

The nun gave a weak half-smile. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m getting you out of here. If there’s a flood coming, then it’s best we leave. I don’t hear any guns outside, so it should be—”

Something black caught his attention near the back door, but it vanished before he could make it out. The door hung open. Had someone been watching them?

Augustina looked at where he had seen it. “The way to the belfry is behind the church. There’s a ladder you must climb.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here. Will you do this for us?”

“I… O-Okay, I’ll do it.” He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but what harm would it do? If the battle was over, and assuming the villagers were victorious, it wasn’t going to make anything worse by climbing the belfry to stop a flood that wasn’t coming. It would only prove the nun was wrong, and the people wouldn’t care one way or another because their town was saved from the cavalry.

He eased Augustina to a pew and took up the spear. No blood sullied its rippled, glass surface, even though it had stabbed Blush in the ass.

“I still think you should get out of here,” he told her. “Blush might come back.”

The bruises on the nun’s face had started to swell. “He won’t.”

“Just—please, get somewhere safe after I leave.”

“I’ll try.”

As he left for the back door he chided himself for leaving her behind. He should’ve refused her request to take the spear and dragged her out of the church to a safer place.

_If she dies, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself._

He couldn’t let another person die because he wasn’t there to help.

 

* * *

 

The rain came down in sheets as he stepped outside. The sounds of battle had silenced in the village, though he could still hear voices and gunshots in the distance. No one stood on the wall near him. Overhead, lightning flashed, illuminating the ladder built into the back of the church. It led to the arched belfry above. The cross on the belfry stood straight, tall, and ominous in the growing tempest, lit from behind by the remaining torches in the plaza. The black sky blotted out the moon and stars. The roiling clouds flickered.

Baskerville used his arm to shield his face from the stinging rain. His clothes had turned damp even before he put a hand to the ladder. He pulled himself up the rungs, one foot at a time with the spear in one hand. The rungs were small, narrow, and precarious. His foot missed once and he slipped, almost losing his hold on the spear. The rain became tiny bullets of freezing ice. A second bolt of lightning showed he was about halfway to the belfry.

“I’m going to get struck by lightning,” he grumbled. “And what for? I’m crazy for doing this.”

He reached the top. A stiff wind tore at him and threatened to shove him over the edge. He braced a hand against the side of the belfry.

“Why the belfry?” he said. “Why can’t I do it from inside the church?”

Baskerville continued to gripe under his breath as he slid his feet along the ledge that would take him to stand just beside the bell. The arch was more than tall enough to accommodate him, so he swung into the archway and put his back against the inside wall. The large, heavy bell swayed slightly in the wind.

_How am I supposed to see the flood in this darkness?_

In the plaza, a few people carried torches as they examined the bodies on the ground. From this height it was hard tell which were soldiers and which were villagers. There were more than ten bodies, and at least one dead horse lay on its side. There were likely more casualties on the other side of the wall. In the distance, beyond the gates, were smaller lights, more people. Had the battle taken itself to the plain?

Hail pelted Baskerville and he tried to squeeze himself into the belfry to avoid most of it. He could hear the white flag snapping in the gusts. Small balls of ice accumulated at his feet. His fingers ached in the cold.

Someone watched him. It could’ve been anybody since there were people down below, but something compelled him to turn and look south of the village. Lightning scrawled a burning web across the sky. The black figure hovered in front of him in that moment of radiance. Baskerville almost slipped backwards off the belfry but caught his balance. He took hold of the spear with both hands.

“What do you want from me?” he yelled into the storm. “Who _are_ you?”

Only the rain and wind replied in fury. The next lightning bolt revealed empty space where the black mass had been. Baskerville’s heart raced. He was certain he’d seen the figure. Was it taunting him?

“Show yourself!” he demanded. He stood poised with the spear but received no further response. “Damn you!” This thing had plagued him for days, and somehow it had come out of his dreams and into the real world. How was that possible?

_In my dreams it was judging me. Now it’s come here to execute me for my sins._ How would he die tonight? Falling from the tower? A lightning bolt? Sniper fire from a hidden enemy?

_No,_ _I_ can’t _die! Not yet!_

The world flared white. Something large and wide moved along the ground to the south. Baskerville wiped away wet strands of hair from his face. Someone shouted from down below. The raging squall obscured the words. He couldn’t see who spoke.

Another shout. The wind slackened just long enough for him to catch the words. Though he couldn’t see her, Sister Augustina was somewhere on the ground.

“It’s here!” she said.

The next pulse of lightning showed him. A fan of water spread out from the gully in the mountains, but in the next instant, blackness enveloped the view. In another flash, his breath caught. A wave rolled down the alluvial fan.

Panic lurched up in his throat. “Wh-What do I do?”

“The spear! You must—” But the roar of the storm cut her off.

He considered dropping the weapon, climbing down the ladder, and hauling the nun to the roof in hopes to save them both, if the church could withstand the deluge. The walls would dull the impact, but then they would also become a debris flow if they broke apart and smashed into all the buildings. Augustina, standing so close to the wall at the first point of impact, would be the first to die.

Something touched the back of his head and he swiped at it. His hands tingled. An electrical charge shot through his fingers. The tip of the spear glittered. He released the shaft and watched in bewilderment as the weapon stood upright and hummed with energy. Just beyond the belfry the black figure hung in the air. It raised an arm and pointed at Baskerville, and then it turned to point toward the oncoming flood.

_You want_ me _to do it?_

The wraith disappeared again.

Baskerville reached out for the spear, uncertain at first as his fingers touched the smooth wood of the shaft. Power coursed through him like bolts of white-hot lightning out of the storm. The glass point’s brilliance blinded him and he had to squint.

He lifted it toward the floodwaters.

A wave of energy shot out from the spear and expanded over the land around the village in a shimmering ring. Calm filled Baskerville as the spear’s energy embraced him. His feet lifted from the belfry.

The floodwaters leaped up from the ground, parted, and two walls flowed past him. Stars like those in the spearhead winked in the currents. He looked on in fascination as they glided along like wide glistening streams, so close to him that he dared to reach out and place the fingers of his left hand in the cool water. His touch cut a luminous trail.

As the last of the watery walls drifted away, a cocoon of light wrapped Baskerville in warmth. He grew drowsy as the world around him warped and wavered from the power emitting from the spear. His hands throbbed with its heartbeat.

The black spirit reappeared. It put a hand to the glass point, and just like that, the power ceased and Baskerville lowered to his feet. The water was gone. The rain had stopped, and the winds had abated. The sky cleared, displaying the starry hosts. Peace infused Baskerville’s soul as he and the figure stared at each other.

“Who are you?” he asked, his speech slow. His body recovered from the energy that had gripped him and the drowsiness faded. “Are you the one who gave Sister Augustina the spear?”

The ghost faded away without an answer.


	13. Chapter 13

“Here you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Baskerville lay in the pew with an arm over his face. The sound of restoration work filtered in through the open doors of the church, and voices lilted over the air. A cool breeze wafted through, easing the summer heat that stifled the sanctuary.

“Are you coming out? The people have something they want to show you,” said Sister Augustina.

Baskerville let his arm drop away. Standing at the end of the pew, the nun waited for his reply with slight worry in her dark eyes. To her left was the altar that had been brought up from the basement to hold the spear. On the wall behind it hung the crucified form of Jesus.

The nun touched the end of his foot in a caring gesture. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“The other night…” he started.

She smiled. “It takes some time to comprehend the experience. In some ways, I feel guilty for forcing you to do it.”

“You don’t need to feel guilty. And you didn’t force me.”

Augustina nudged his foot again. “Will you come out?” she said gently.

He had been reclusive for days since the cavalry was driven off. After using the spear, he’d felt drained and unsettled. He’d retired to the padre’s quarters so he could have some privacy, and the only people to visit were Augustina and Merula. All others hung back after hearing the story of how he had saved Edén from the flood. People looked at him with reverence.

No one knew what happened to the water because it had vanished in the desert. The people had reported seeing it flying overhead like a liquid Milky Way, but then the night had consumed it. Some joked that perhaps it had fallen to create a new lake somewhere, and that they would move the village if they ever found it.

Baskerville found none of it amusing. Though his dreams were now free of the black figure, he still wondered about it, and the one unanswered question: _“Are you the one who gave Sister Augustina the spear?”_

What had been that _thing_?

“You saw it, too, didn’t you?” he said to the nun.

She blinked. “Saw what?”

He sat up from the pew. “You know what I’m talking about. It was black and shaped like a person, over by the back door that night. I kept seeing it in my dreams and it came to me before the flood. Sister, where did you really get that spear? Who made it?”

“I told you already. An angel gave it to me.”

“Are you telling me _that_ was an angel? They don’t look like that!”

“Like how? Have you seen one?”

Baskerville remembered all the figurines his sister had collected before she died. Angels were humanoid beings with wings, white robes, and golden halos. The black ghost was not an angel. But it wasn’t a demon, was it?

“No,” he admitted. “Not for real, anyway.”

“Sometimes things aren’t always what we expect them to be.” Augustina looked to the statue of Jesus. “Truthfully, the supernatural realm is very much still a mystery.”

_The supernatural realm?_ Did it really exist? Last night should’ve been proof enough for him, but he remained uncertain. The spear wasn’t a weapon engineered by man, or so he doubted it could’ve been.

He thought of his Bible with the Eto Gun manual. _It uses the “essence” of animals from the Chinese zodiac to create bullets that move like animals. That almost sounds like…magic._

He swung his legs back to the floor. The old, worn bench creaked with the movement. “Well, whatever it was, I think it wanted me to help. It told me to stop the flood.” He rubbed fingers to his forehead. “How was I able to do it?”

The nun came to sit beside him. She walked with a bit of a limp over the last few days, but her wound was clear of infection and had required few stitches.

“God is not limited by your lack of faith,” she said, “or that you don’t believe he exists. Perhaps it was your willingness to bring justice for Edén that this spirit found you worthy to wield the spear.” She shrugged. “Whatever it may be, it chose you.”

“In the same way it chose you?”

Again she shrugged.

Baskerville wondered what her story was. He had a feeling the tale Merula told him was only a small part of it.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the medal that had belonged to Incenio. “Do you know what this is? It was Incenio’s.”

The nun took it and examined it. “Ah, yes. This is Saint Jerome Emiliani, patron saint of orphans and abandoned children. I believe Father Michael gave it to Incenio not long before the Father passed away.” She handed it back to Baskerville. “My heart is still broken over losing Incenio. I know he wanted to leave Edén, but I had hoped to make a place for him here.”

“He wanted to come back. He regretted leaving.”

“Now he will always stay.”

Baskerville tucked the medal away in his jacket with plans for it later. “There’s also one other thing I’ve been wondering about.” He pointed at the ceiling. “That chandelier. When I first walked into this church, I couldn’t help but notice it was…fancier compared to everything else. It seems a little out of place.”

Augustina admired the elegant, iron filigree. “It was here before I arrived, but Father Michael said it was gifted to us by a kind man who came here for shelter during a terrible dust storm several years ago. He was in bad shape, and he had a young girl with him. According to Father Michael, the man made this chandelier in thanks for our help.”

“He _made_ this?”

“From his own hands.”

“Then he was quite a craftsman. Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name, though Father Michael might’ve. All I know is he was a talented Chinese blacksmith.” Augustina paused as she thought. “I think he lives around here somewhere.”

“A Chinese blacksmith?” Baskerville hoped his sudden rush of excitement didn’t show. “Where do you think he lives? I-I mean, this desert is hardly habitable. I can’t imagine many people live out here—besides in Gold Hill.”

“I can’t say exactly where. I’ve heard stories of an old foreign man who lives on a mountain many miles west of here. As far as I know, he hasn’t been to Edén since he gave us the chandelier. He may no longer be living for all I know.”

“That’s unfortunate. You said he had a young girl with him. She might be alone now.”

If this Chinese man was the one who had held the Eto Gun, but he was dead, then this girl might know something about it. She might even know where it is.

_A mountain west of here… How many Chinese people live in this desert? I bet I can gather enough information along the way to find out where he lives._

“Perhaps,” said Augustina. She shook her head sadly. “I can’t bear the thought of another orphan out there in the world. I’ll always think of Incenio.”

Baskerville yearned to ask more questions, but before he could continue, someone came through the doors of the church. Merula stood with her hands on her hips.

“Now we’re looking for the _both_ of you,” she said. “The people are out there chomping at the bit.”

“Why?” asked Baskerville.

“Come out and see!”

Sister Augustina took him by the hand and led him to the steps.

What he saw next took his breath away. The villagers filled the plaza to full capacity. Colorful streamers were strung from building to building, and the people cheered when he emerged from the church. Men, women, and children were dressed in their finest, and a long table was set in the center of the plaza with plates of food. The walls and the gate were almost fully repaired, and two watchmen stood in their places above the gates, keeping vigil in case the cavalry decided to return for revenge, but so far no sign had yet been seen of the arrogant general.

Nico, Goyo, Emilia, and Alejandro stood at the front of the crowd. The village elder smiled at Baskerville appreciatively for the first time.

Sister Augustina quieted the crowd to allow the elder to speak. The old man went up the chipped steps to place a hand on Baskerville’s shoulder. Merula put her hand on his other shoulder.

“God showed us he had a plan for you coming here,” Alejandro said. “Though we expelled you, he brought you back, and for that we are grateful. Today we celebrate our victory over those who wished to see us defeated, and you will have the seat of honor once more.”

Baskerville cast his gaze to the ground. He didn’t deserve this. Though he had helped save Edén from two threats, what he had done to the villagers was still fresh in his mind. Their forgiveness overwhelmed him.

Merula leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Congratulations. Now every available woman in the village wants to marry you.”

He shivered at her breath against his skin. “Maybe I should leave while I still have a chance to get away?”

His friend chuckled. She had played an important role during the battle by staging an ambush against the soldiers who were stationed near the cannons. The villagers had taken control of the cannons and prevented further casualties. She had also seen Blush force Sister Augustina into the church, and had her spiders follow him.

Eventually the gates had been forced open and the cavalry fled into the night. The villagers didn’t let up, and pursued the soldiers for more than three miles. The cavalry had scattered. Many were killed. No one knew where Blush had gone, but Baskerville surmised the general escaped on horse, and that man was never going to forget what happened. He would surely try to get revenge.

_I’ll have to watch my back from now on. At least he can’t report to the Boss after this disaster._

All who were slain were buried in the cemetery, including the soldiers because the cavalry hadn’t seemed interested in returning for their dead. The villagers, in an act of grace Baskerville had never seen before, took care to mark each soldier’s grave. Those who were enemies in life were treated with same respect as friends and relatives, though not a single tear was shed for any of them.

Baskerville sat at the head of the table, while Augustina and Merula sat at each side of him. The people celebrated with music and dancing, much as they had when Baskerville first arrived. The joy and relief could be felt in every movement, note, and wide smile on every person.

Plates of food kept appearing in front of him when he didn’t think he could eat anymore. Whatever he didn’t eat, Merula would pick off his plate. She teased him for hours, pointing out the girls who were interested in him, and making him blush whenever she brushed a foot against his leg. She wasn’t serious, of course, but it was beginning to drive him crazy.

“Are you going back to Gold Hill?” he asked her.

Merula had just finished polishing off another plate. How could she eat so much and still keep her figure? “I have to, don’t I? You’d never let me go with you.”

“I won’t. What about your saloon? Will you be okay?”

“Eh, I’ll be fine. When some of the people went to Gold Hill for more food, they said my saloon was still standing, which leaves me wondering where Blush disappeared to for three days.”

“Probably to get to an armory. He should’ve done that the first time.”

“If he had, he wouldn’t have showed up in Gold Hill and Edén would be in ruins today.”

Baskerville stopped. She was right. Though he didn’t believe in such things as God or fate, he thought about Incenio’s death as a key event needed to prompt his return to Edén. If he hadn’t come back, everyone here would be dead and he wouldn’t be sitting at the table in celebration.

Did the black ghost—or angel, have something to do with how things turned out?

He put it out of his mind. It wouldn’t do him any good to keep trying to figure it out. He had to forget it. After all, he hadn’t seen it since that night. Whatever it had wanted with him, it was finished now.

 

* * *

 

 The morning light touched the crests of the mountains behind the village the next day. As the dawn drew down upon their rocky slopes, warmth came with it.

Women drew water from the well for morning washes and breakfasts. Men gathered together to discuss the fieldwork for the coming week. Sister Augustina knelt in the church in front of the altar, praying for God to bring future blessings upon Edén.

Baskerville stood in the cemetery dressed in his cassock, which he had dared to don this day in spite of what the people might think. He gazed down at the little wooden marker of Incenio’s grave. Alejandro had assured him they would eventually get the boy a proper headstone, and they would get fresh flowers to put on the graves once new ones could be grown and cut.

Baskerville had first seen Incenio sitting at the base of Father Michael’s headstone. He thought it was proper the boy was placed beside the priest. Incenio’s parents were also buried nearby, so he was not far from his family.

Baskerville took out the medal and draped it over the wooden marker. “I’m sorry about all that happened to you,” he said softly, “but you’re home now, and Edén is saved, just like you wanted.”

The boy couldn’t hear him. If there was an afterlife, Baskerville hoped Incenio was there, in a good, peaceful place. If anything else, the boy was at rest.

“I’ll never let anyone die on my watch again,” he added. He fingered the cross at his collar. “Never again.”

“Are you sure you want to leave?” said someone behind him.

Sister Augustina stood nearby at a respectful distance. She appeared sad with her hands clasped in front of her. A breeze waffled her veil. “We have more than enough room for you. Stay longer, if you wish, or you can stay permanently. We would love for you to stay.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to keep moving forward. I have a mission.”

The nun’s delicate eyebrows came down over her nose. “I heard what that man Blush said. Was it true? Have you gone to such lengths to find this gun?”

“I’m afraid so,” he confessed.=, “but Incenio taught me something important. It’s part of the reason I came back here.”

“And do you believe this Chinese man might have the gun you’re looking for?”

Had she deduced that already? This nun was sharp. “Possibly. It’s the best lead I’ve had so far.”

“But why do you want it?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s…personal.”

Augustina regarded him with concern. She didn’t like that answer. “I do hope your travels are safe.”

He could guarantee nothing. “Thank you.”

Back in the village he packed his belongings. He took his horse, while Merula took one of the horses Blush had left behind with the wagon in Gold Hill. When the people heard they were leaving, they gathered together to see them through the gate. A few cried, in particular some of the women who had hoped to snag Baskerville as a spouse. He grimaced at the sight. Merula just grinned at him.

Alejandro came and shook his hand once more. “We wish you the best,” he said. “Please, be careful. The direction you are headed is full of danger. The desert is large and long. Many have tried to go through it on foot or horse, and did not make it.”

“The next town is more than three hundred miles away,” said Nico warily. “And there are Indians. Some are friendly but others aren’t.”

“I’ve traveled by myself for years,” Baskerville assured them, “and I’ve been to some nasty places. I’ll survive.”

The others looked doubtful, even Merula.

“If you change your mind, come back this way,” said Goyo. “Emilia and I have a room we can make up for you.”

Baskerville bowed his head in thanks. “I appreciate that.” He turned to Merula. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again someday.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “I’ll be Gold Hill if you need anything.”

He hoped she would be. The consequences of this incident had yet to be determined. The Syndicate could move her elsewhere and he might not be able to find her again because of the large number of “suppliers” scattered all over the country.

He gave her a long look. There was no way he could express how grateful he was for her help in all this, and he would miss her friendship.

Merula turned to her horse and swung up into the saddle. A box with holes hung off one of the saddle bags. One hairy spider leg dangled out.

“Until next time, then,” she said, and waved at the crowd as she directed her steed on the road back to Gold Hill.

Baskerville waited until she was just a dot on the horizon, saying goodbye to others and accepting everyone’s well-wishes. He took one final glance at Incenio’s grave before mounting his horse. All he had to use was a compass that would take him west, along with a crude map detailed by Nico and some instructions from Alejandro about the wilderness he was about to face.

As he goaded his horse foward, he looked over his shoulder at the people congregated to see him off. Sister Augustina stood at the front with Alejandro and the others. She had her hands folded in front of her, her brow creased with worry. Her lips moved in a silent prayer.


	14. Chapter 14

It was hard for him not to admit his mistake. The wide plain of the desert opened up before him, an endless sea of brown and tan, with only stubby shrubs clinging to the rocky earth.

The heat seared every bit of exposed skin. Sweat ran down his chest and back in rivulets, dampening his clothes. His feet dragged as heat sapped the strength from his body. In his arms he clutched his Bible, and the canteen slung over his shoulder had become dangerously low on water. He calculated he probably had a few sips left.

He stopped to rest his feet of the constant pressure of walking. Sitting down on a stiff crust of dirt, Baskerville opened the Bible and took out the map Nico had drawn for him. Somewhere, at some point, he should reach a town, a place called New Virginia; however, he should’ve gotten there by now. After a week of walking west he hadn’t seen a single sign of life, not so much as a human footprint. People obviously didn’t travel this way. There were no pit stops, springs, or a tree to shade a person from the unbearable oven of the sun. Though he was happy to have the cassock and hat shield him from sunburns, he also had the mad desire to throw off all his clothes.

He looked back. His horse lay twenty miles away, its throat slit out of mercy. The blood had gushed forth and the baked earth drank it up. With lack of water and the extreme temperatures, the horse had grown exhausted until it stopped walking. Baskerville had had no choice. He’d taken the Bible, the canteen, and as much food as he could carry on himself and moved on. Yet, eventually, he’d had to drop the excess weight for the sake of his increasing fatigue, and he left some of the food to rot in the sun.

He watched the land waver in front of him. _I can’t give up._

He put the map away and got up on wobbly legs. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. When the freezing night came, he would wish for day, and when day came, he would wish for night again. With no roof over his head at night, and no ability to create a campfire, his chances were slim. He knew that. But he could not accept it.

The day wore on and he was sure he had made good progress, but time here could be deceptive. Every minute, every hour, and each day he grew weaker. With each breath he drew, the stagnant, dry heat threatened to suck his soul from his body. He labored for air and coughed.

It wasn’t long before the water ran out. He was reluctant to toss the canteen aside in case he did find a spring, but he had little hope for that. His only shot at survival was the town. The canteen dropped from his shoulder.

 _But_ _is there a town? What if New Virginia is just a ghost town now? What if it’s gone?_

Baskerville stuffed the panic down. He blinked to moisten his eyes, but it seemed even they had run out of water. It was like his eyelids come down over two balls of sandpaper. Their only moisture came from the sweat that dribbled from his forehead.

The compass indicated he walked in the right direction. He wondered if perhaps Nico had accidentally misplaced the town on the map. He might’ve missed it long ago. The possibility terrified him.

His foot struck a stone and he stumbled forward. He hit the ground and spat out the dirt that swirled around him. Lifting his head, Baskerville saw the quivering line of the horizon. He tried to push back up, but his strength was gone. A groan escaped him. His hat lay just in front of him. One hand clung to the Bible.

_No…_

He strained to see see the slightest speck of hope. The world around him sat empty. He clawed his fingers in the dust as panic and hopelessness burrowed a deep hole in his spirit.

Something small and black appeared in the distance. His breath hitched. A human shape.

_It’s back._

He reached out.

_Help me. Please!_

* * *

The darkness was complete. His dreams were at times a void of nothingness, as empty as the desert, and then his water-starved brain would force him to relive the events at Edén, the faces of his friends flickering through his mind like the storm that brought the flood down the canyon. At other times the star-studded spearhead filled his memories. He felt the current of its power surging through every cell in his body. The mighty walls of water washed over him and swirled around like a funnel cloud. Trapped in the eye of the tornado, he could see a bright light above him. The way out.

_If I could reach it…_

He willed himself toward it, his soul struggling. Unknown voices called out to him from the deluge. Faces raced by in the waters. The light above expanded.

His eyes opened. The stars in the sky were bright and clear. Baskerville lay on his back, not the way he remembered falling. The thick Bible felt solid in his fingers. He brought it close.

Sitting up, he cast about for his hat, found it, and put it on. A fire crackled in front of him and beside it sat a stack of wood. Large stones sheltered the camp, upon which the orange vacillating glow of the fire danced. There was no one else present.

“Where am I?” he muttered. The warmth of the fire reached him, a welcoming thing in the deep cold that crept into his cassock. He scooted closer to take advantage of this comfort, looking around for some explanation. Campfires don’t build themselves. How had he come to be here?

A foot scuffed against gravel. Between an opening in the rocks a figure stood looking down at him, appearing like a black mass as it came forward. Baskerville’s heart leapt. His first thought was the ghost, but the fire threw its light upon a young girl with her hair in two pigtails. In one hand she held a dead rabbit by the ears. When she saw him, her face brightened. A broad smile graced her lips.

“Oh! Mr. Priest, you’re awake!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this, thank you! I would really appreciate comments, kudos, or critique. I don't usually have beta readers because this fandom is so obscure and most people wouldn't be interested in reading something this long when they don't know the fandom, so I don't always see problem areas. You can comment here or email me if you would like to point something out. :)


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